


Land of Light and Shadows

by ThunderaTiger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Plot - Bittersweet, Post-War of the Ring, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Subjects - Technology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 275,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderaTiger/pseuds/ThunderaTiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The morning was surprisingly brisk given the summer season. Fog streamed in from Anduin, veiling the land in a cloud of cool moisture. The sky grew light as the sun prepared to rise above the grim peaks of the Ephel Duath. Green grass heavy with dew perfumed the coming day with a fresh scent. Trumpets sounded once, heralding the changing of the watch in a towering white city built into the side of a the white-capped mountain Mindolluin, and then the morning fell still again. The soft murmur of Anduin was barely noticeable through the thick fog. Light colors of pink and orange began to touch the few clouds lingering in the sky as the sun grew closer to making an appearance.

The silence was interrupted again by the sound of horses. Thundering over the resting land, a group of riders galloped toward the shining city. They did not hurry, but neither did they tarry. With skills born of long years in battle, they paced their horses so that they would arrive at the city in good time and in good strength should a longer journey present itself afterward.

Initially obscured by the fog, a wall suddenly loomed before them and as one the company of riders turned and rode parallel to it, seeking the gates that would give them passage to the fertile fields within the Rammas Echor. Before long, they found what they sought. The sentinels on guard immediately stood aside for their passage, and as they journeyed on, the sound of trumpets rose into the air behind them. Their coming had been announced.

Answering trumpets echoed out from the white city and in the distance, a great gate was being opened for them. The first rays of the sun shot over the Ephel Duath peaks and the city’s highest tower caught the light and reflected it back to the plain, twinkling like a star in the early morning. The lowing of cattle greeted the ears of the riders as they continued toward the Minas Tirith across the Pelennor Fields. When they were halfway across the vast fields, the trumpets sounded again, marking their progress and hailing their presence. A chorus of neighs arose in the morning air from a collection of proud horses corralled without the city walls. The standard of a white horse set against a field of green flapped lazily in the slight breeze, and the two foremost riders in the approaching company exchanged curious looks.

"The summons said nothing of Rohan," one said, his deep voice carrying clearly in the brisk air.

"But to me it felt as though the King Elessar meant more than what he wrote," the other replied. Shaking back his hair, he shaded farseeing eyes and looked toward the city. "He awaits us in the top of the citadel. I can see him at the window, and King Eomer is there as well. And I think…I believe I can see Gimli’s helm."

"Gimli must have come with Eomer, then. Can you see ought else, Legolas?"

The elf shook his head. "Nay, Faramir. If there be any others with them, they await us within."

"Then let us not keep them waiting," Faramir said, spurring his horse forward. Legolas urged his own mount after him, and the riders behind quickly picked up the pace as well.

It was not long before they passed beneath the towering arch of the City-gate and the clatter of hooves was soon heard on stone walks. Winding their way through the city’s many levels, they soon came nigh unto the citadel and dismounted. Here, grooms came forth to lead away the horses, though there was some trouble with Faensul, Legolas’s white elven stallion. The horse was loathe to leave its master and uneasy in the city of stone despite the elf’s soothing words, and Legolas eventually had to take the horse away himself, promising that he would join Faramir and the others soon.

With his own soldiers following close behind, the Steward of Gondor marched into the courtyard where the guards smartly saluted him and directed him to the tower where of old the stewards would keep watch over the land. Dismissing his own guard and directing them to find food and lodgings, Faramir made his way to the spiraling stairs and began the ascent.

Several minutes later, Faramir walked into a room where Aragorn, Arwen, and Eomer sat. Faramir bowed low before them and then dove forward as he sensed motion above. Rolling out of his dive, he caught sight of Aragorn shaking his head, Eomer shaking with ill-concealed mirth, and Arwen trying not to smile.

"Where is Legolas?!"

Turning his attention to the dwarf who had dropped from the rafters, Faramir started to laugh. "And hail to you, Gimli," the steward answered. "All goes well in Ithilien, and Eowyn sends her greetings, thank you for asking. How are your own people and your own work in the Glittering Caves?"

The dwarf glared at the steward and folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. "The summons was for both you and Legolas. Where is that elf?"

"His horse would not be led away by the Gondor’s men and he was forced to take the stallion himself. He will join us shortly," Faramir answered.

"Arod has never given him trouble before," Eomer said with a slight frown.

"Arod died two months ago," Aragorn explained. "Legolas now rides an elven horse. A present from his father, I believe."

Arwen nodded, resting her hand lightly on Aragorn’s forearm. "Thraunduil sent the horse along with his praise for Legolas’s accomplishments in Ithilien. And if I am not mistaken, something was said of Gimli in the message," she added, glancing at the dwarf.

"Legolas’s father does not appreciate the value of dwarves as his son so wisely does," Gimli grumbled. He eyed the rafters above him, wondering how he had managed to get up there in the first place and whether or not he could do it again before Legolas arrived. "Eomer, I need your chair again."

"You will never do it in time," the king of Rohan said, though he stood and slid his chair toward the dwarf.

"We shall see," Gimli grunted, clambering up on the chair and leaping, using his sturdy legs to propel himself high into the air. His hand caught hold of one beam and he swung there for a while before securing a hold with the other hand.

"Why can’t they greet one another as normal people?" Faramir asked, watching the dwarf’s struggles with bemusement.

"Because neither one is normal," Eomer answered.

"I hope that is not a slight against elves," Arwen said with mock indignation, smiling slightly to take the sting from her words.

"Nothing of the sort, my lady," Eomer replied, wincing as Gimli almost lost his grip while trying to get his legs over the beams. "Say rather that it is a comment on two very strange personalities, one of which happens to be an elf and other of which happens to be a dwarf."

By now, Gimli had managed to get a leg over a thick section of wood and was inches away from pulling himself completely on top of the beams when the rafters shuddered. The dwarf froze for a moment and then turned his head.

"This is a most unusual wait to meet. Would you permit to ask what you are doing and why?"

Gimli glared daggers at the newly arrived Legolas who now hung beside him. "What business is that of yours?"

With a quick laugh, the elf swung easily up onto the top of the rafters and looked down at the dwarf. "My curiosity could not be contained," the prince answered. "And I thought you believed that high perches were not suited for sane beings. Have the Glittering Caves finally driven you to madness or do you seek to be more like the elves?"

"Master Elf, I will have you know that—"

"May we begin?" Aragorn asked from the table, attempting to look stern despite the upward twitching of his lips. "There was a reason for the summons other than to watch the two of you caper about over our heads."

Legolas dropped lightly to the floor while Gimli hit the ground behind him with a hard thud. The dwarf murmured something too low to be heard and Legolas laughed as he took a seat. "You have much to learn, Gimli, if you truly seek to travel as light as the elves."

"And you, Legolas, have much to learn if you wish to keep that fair face intact," Gimli threatened with a menacing glower, sitting beside him.

"Thank you," Aragorn said, deciding to ignore the last two comments and be grateful for the simple fact that they had come down on the first request. "I have summoned you all here today to hear your counsel and, if you are willing, your companionship."

Gimli was sorely tempted to state that Legolas could provide neither of these but decided to hold his tongue. Almost as if guessing his thoughts, Aragorn directed a stern glare at the dwarf and then continued.

"Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has reported that denizens of Harad have contacted him. They have asked him to pass on a message. Gondor and Rohan are invited to take part in the Gathering of Harad’s tribes. If we choose to accept the proposition, we are to meet with the tribal representatives at Dol Amroth in four days time. After that, we will be escorted to Haradhur where the Gathering will take place."

"What is a Gathering?" Faramir asked.

Aragorn frowned. "It is difficult to explain as we have no equivalant for it here, but I will try. The Gathering is more or less a large trade negotiation among the tribes. Every tribe meets at Haradhur and discusses problems of the last year along with creating agreements for the year to come. Were Gondor and Rohan to attend, we could broker deals and establish a presence among our southern neighbors." Aragorn paused to judge the reactions of the others at this point. Gimli looked bored, Legolas appeared interested but puzzled, Faramir was nodding thoughtfully, and Eomer seemed undecided. Arwen had already heard the news and, like Aragorn, was merely waiting for the reactions of the others.

"What are the drawbacks?" Eomer asked.

Aragorn and Arwen exchanged glances. "According to Harad tradition, the leaders of the tribes must be present at a Gathering," Aragorn answered. "This means that you, Eomer, and I have to attend. We will leave both our kingdoms without a king and that is a danger. Moreover, such an invitation has never been made before despite our overtures in the past years and I fear some treachery may be involved."

"Yet such an opportunity is a rare thing," Arwen spoke up. "We cannot overlook it, though it is true we must proceed with caution."

"I have decided to go," Aragorn stated. "Whether Eomer chooses to accompany me or not is his decision. In my absence, Faramir will govern Minas Tirith and Arwen shall aid him."

"I know little of the customs of Harad," Faramir admitted, "but already my heart warns me to take care. Is this invitation in keeping with their normal traditions?"

There was a pause as Aragorn considered the question. "Yes and no," he eventually said. "Long ago I lived among them for a time, and I remember the Gathering at Haradhur. Haradhur is one of the few permanent settlements in Harad’s desert, and any dealings with foreign kingdoms are usually done there. In this, all is customary for the Haradrim. It is the timing that is unusual. Under normal circumstances, if the Harad tribes wished to broker deals with foreign kingdoms, a few delegates from each of the most powerful tribes would be called to meet with foreign dignitaries at Haradhur during the winter months when the desert is not so treacherous. I cannot recall a single instance in which a foreign power has been invited to a Gathering. Yet here they have invited two!"

"Why do they hold the Gathering in the summer?" Gimli wondered curiously.

"So that all dealings may be done at one time," Aragorn explained. "During the summer, activity is nigh impossible during the day and everything is done at night. This prevents, to an extent, secret trades and treaties. Also, it is seen as a sign of commitment for the tribes to meet when conditions are most difficult."

"Do you counsel me to accompany you?" Eomer asked.

Aragorn shook his head. "I am unsure of my own counsel. How then shall I advise you? This opportunity gives us a chance to be seen by most of the tribes in Harad and also a chance to make our power felt. We may be able to acquire a promise from some of the desert’s northern tribes that they will cease to attack the southern fields of Lebannin. And there are valuable commodities to be had in the desert, as well. Fine linens are spun there, and precious metals are to be found. Key trade agreements would be very profitable for Rohan, and it would bolster Gondor’s position to be accompanied by a key ally. But I will not deceive you. Like Faramir, I am also wary. The invitation, though it appears sincere, may be a trap for something else."

"You suspect an attempt on our lives?" Eomer wondered.

"It is a possibility," Aragorn answered. "More likely they will seek to gain leverage over us in some way and so force us into a dangerous agreement."

"Those that would seek to do so would be unwise," Arwen said firmly. "The power and might of Gondor cannot be contested in such a way."

"My liege, you have decreed that I am to stay behind and I bow before your wisdom, but may I ask who is to accompany you?" Faramir broke in.

"A force of perhaps twenty mounted guards."

"Twenty?" Faramir blinked in astonishment. "Surely you would take far more for your own protection."

"The politics of the Haradrim are…different from our own," Aragorn attempted to explain. "If I were to arrive alone and without escort, I would be seen as weak. However, should I take an army with me, the other tribes would see me as either threatening or attempting to hide something. It must be a small force of able men. And Eomer, should you decide to come, I would counsel you to do the same."

"So be it then," Eomer answered. "I will ride with you, Aragorn, and with me shall come twenty of my best riders."

"Aragorn, what is my involvement in this?" Gimli spoke up, voicing Legolas’s question as well.

The king of Gondor shifted and appeared rather uncomfortable. "I would ask you to accompany me as well, but…for different reasons."

"We do not need reasons," the dwarf stated. "I think I speak for both of us when I say that we would gladly join you on this journey." Legolas nodded in agreement.

"I thank you for your willingness," Aragorn said slowly, "but I feel you must understand the logic behind my request. You see…the Haradrim are highly superstitious. They fear what they cannot understand and a tribe who possesses and controls something beyond their comprehension is seen as…powerful."

"Ah," Legolas said with a slow smile. "In other words, the possession and control of an elf and dwarf would be a sign of power for Gondor and Rohan."

"This suggestion was actually mine," Arwen spoke up for her uncomfortable husband. "I assured him that the two of you would not take offense at the idea, but he hesitated before including Legolas in Faramir’s summons and Gimli in Eomer’s."

"Let me see if I understand this," Gimli said. "The Haradrim would see that you had two very unusual things under their control and so would be more willing to favor Gondor and Rohan in negotiations. Do I have it aright?"

"You do," Aragorn sighed. "And I do not mean to say that the elves of Ithilien and the dwarves of the Glittering Caves are possessed or controlled in any way, but—"

"It is as Gimli said before," Legolas interrupted with a laugh. "We will gladly join you on this journey. The reasons matter not, for in your friendship the matters of possession and control are laid to rest. If it furthers political ends to think otherwise, so be it."

"I would ask, though, that you control Legolas more than you control me," Gimli said, skillfully ducking the elven elbow that flew his way. "In a strange land among strange men, the elves are not to be trusted."

"And the dwarves are?" Legolas shot back.

Sensing the meeting was close to an end, Aragorn sighed. "You are certain, both of you? For in this choice resides danger. It is a difficult land. There are no trees and no caves. It is a sea of sand and the days are hot beyond imagining."

"If a man shall endure it, so shall a dwarf," Gimli declared. "But in light of this, I think Legolas may want to reconsider."

"Nay, I must travel to support the aging dwarf with the strength of the elves," Legolas answered, rolling out of his seat and neatly avoiding Gimli’s swinging arm.

"This meeting is adjourned, then," Aragorn announced, standing up and stepping out of the way of Gimli’s lunge. "Eomer, you and your men can find provisions in the storehouse if you have need of them. Gimli and Legolas, your usual quarters are well stocked should you need to rest before we leave and I will see that you are also supplied with sufficient provender. I hope to depart late this afternoon and so arrive at Dol Amroth in the morning four days from now. Tents and other traveling goods are already waiting for us. Are there any preparations that need to be made in which Gondor could aid you?"

"A dwarf is always ready for travel," Gimli said proudly.

"But no more so than an elf," Legolas said.

"My riders will need to stock their saddlebags, but we will be ready to leave at the appointed time," Eomer said.

Aragorn nodded. "Good. We will gather at the gate ere the trumpets sound for the evening watch. And my thanks again for your willingness to come. It is appreciated."

"Where Gondor goes, so goes Rohan," Eomer said with a bow to Aragorn and Arwen. "Have no fear for him, my lady," he said to the queen when he rose. "The swords of Gondor will be ready in his defense as well as the lances of Rohan. And when we return, we shall bear the riches of the south."

* * * *

Gimli narrowed his eyes, cocked his head, and tapped his foot. The object of his scrutiny studied the dwarf in return, blinking large, dark eyes and eventually snorting, unimpressed with what it saw. Legolas fought down a laugh and ran his hand along the smooth arch of the stallion’s white neck.

"We could eat him if circumstances forced us," was Gimli’s final opinion on the horse. Faensul laid his ears back, tossed his head, and stamped one white hoof.

" _E gara um caul a u-broniaa aglaredh, Faensul_ ," Legolas told his mount with a laugh. The horse pricked his ears up, studied Gimli again with renewed interest, and then turned his attention to Legolas, rubbing his head against the elf’s tunic.

"What did you tell him?" the dwarf demanded, having understood only some of the words.

"Nothing of great importance," the elf answered.

The two stood before Minas Tirith’s towering gate, waiting for the signal to mount and ride. As was his habit when journeying with the elf, Gimli would be riding behind Legolas. But the new horse was beginning to give him second thoughts.

"Perhaps I should ask Eomer about that pony," the dwarf murmured, unaware that he was speaking aloud.

Legolas laughed and shook his head. "Faensul will not permit you to fall once I command him to bear you. In many ways, you are safer upon his back than you were upon Arod’s. Had I been forced off, Arod would have been beyond your control. Faensul will listen to your commands."

"Will he?" Gimli eyed the horse skeptically.

"If you have the sense to stay in his good graces," Legolas qualified with a mischievous smile that immediately put Gimli on his guard. The elf seemed about to say more, but motion to the side caught his attention and he turned as a large, gray horse rode up.

"Aragorn sends word that we are ready to move out," Eomer told them, pulling his horse Shade to a stop. "Do you have need of anything before we depart?"

"Does the offer of a pony still stand?" Gimli asked with a sidelong glance at Faensul.

The king of Rohan smiled and shook his head. "You would slow us down, Master Dwarf, and so I fear you must seek another mount. If you desire it, Shade will bear us both."

"Come, Gimli," Legolas laughed. "Let Faensul show you his paces for the first part of the journey at least. And then if you still have doubts, you may burden Eomer with your bulk."

"If I am such a burden, Master Elf, perhaps you would see me stay in Minas Tirith," Gimli retorted. "But then who would watch your back and warn you of the obvious things your elven eyes miss should I remain here?"

"You speak truly, my friend. I know of no one else who has your power to state the obvious," Legolas smiled.

Before Gimli could think of an appropriate retort to that, a horn sounded loud from the gate, and Aragorn rode forth accompanied by twenty of his guard on horseback. Eomer turned his horse and spurred Shade toward the waiting Rohirrim who would be journeying with them. Legolas shot Gimli a questioning look and the dwarf nodded reluctantly, moving to Faesul’s side.

"I shall hold you responsible for every bruise I endure because of this horse," the dwarf warned as Legolas helped him mount.

"Am I then allowed to hold you responsible for every affront I will endure because of your presence?" Legolas asked, springing onto Faesul’s back in front Gimli.

"My presence is a blessing for which you should be grateful," Gimli responded. Faensul tossed his head and snorted as if in response to the dwarf’s words. "Others would do well to learn that lesson, too," Gimli said to the horse.

"Alas, I fear it is a difficult lesson to learn," Legolas said, urging Faensul toward Aragorn’s side.

Surveying his guards and the Rohirrim who now waited to ride, Aragorn nodded as Legolas and Gimli joined him at the head of the company. "All is in readiness, I trust?" he asked the elf and dwarf.

"We await your word, lord," Legolas answered.

"Then let us be on our way," Aragorn said, feeling the eagerness of Arnor, his mount, to be off. Glancing back at their company, the king raised his hand and cried aloud. "Forward!"

As one, they sprang forward, thundering across the Pelennor Fields, skillfully drawing together to exit the gate in the great wall that encircled the fertile lands, and passing swiftly southward as the sun began to set.

 

__

Faensul—White Wind

__

E gara um caul a u-broniaa aglaredh, Faensul—He has an affliction and cannot endure your glory, Faensul.


	2. Near to the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"I still say those who prefer horses to feet are daft," Gimli grumbled as he dropped from Faensul’s back. It was the morning of the third day of their travel, and the dwarf was exhausted. They had ridden hard that first evening and night, rested during the second day, ridden again the second night, and now drew nigh unto Dol Amroth, home to Prince Imrahil. Aragorn had counseled that they should become accustomed to activity in the night and rest during sunlight as that would be the way of things once they entered Harad. 

Legolas gave Faensul a pat and turned him loose to search for grass and bed. "Were you to have traveled by foot, you would barely be beyond sight of Minas Tirith," the elf said with a slight smile. 

"Have you so little respect for the dwarves?" Gimli asked, trying to ease the stiffness from his legs. "We are a hardy folk and can travel with great speed if the need arises." 

"But speed is relative," Legolas pointed out. "To those doomed to walk, perhaps dwarves can seem fast. But for those of us who choose to ride, you are snails by comparison, my friend." The elf sighed and moved away from the dwarf, his mood abruptly shifting. "Can you smell it?" 

Gimli glanced at his friend curiously, suddenly aware of a underlying tone of sorrow in the elf’s normally cheerful voice. "Pardon?" 

"The sea." Legolas’s bright eyes glittered in the light of the rising sun and stared southward with an intensity that made Gimli shiver. "Can you smell it? There is salt in the air and the smell of water. Almost I feel I could touch it." 

The dwarf gave himself a mental kick for not having anticipated this development. Ever since the harrowing ride on the Paths of the Dead, even before the destruction of the Ring, the call of the sea had claimed his best friend’s heart. Legolas would mention it now and then, and whenever the subject came up, a strange look of longing and discontentment would cloud the elf’s gray eyes. Gimli had no means of understanding what Legolas was going through, but it frightened him sometimes. Very few things stirred the elf’s emotions for an extended period of time, and the sea was one of these things. 

"No, I fear I cannot smell it," Gimli finally answered, though he doubted that Legolas was even aware of him at this point. The elf continued to look toward the south with eyes that could span distances beyond imagining. Gimli wondered if his keen-eyed friend could sea the waters that called to his elven heart. "Legolas?" There was no answer and Gimli knew it was vain to try again. With a heavy sigh, unable to do anything else, the dwarf left Legolas standing there, consumed once more by his desire for the sea. 

"You seem to have survived the trip so far," a laughing voice called out to him. Gimli looked up and nodded at Eomer who was eating some kind of waybread. 

"It has been an adventure," the dwarf returned, trying to summon a smile. "Elves are strange creatures and elven horses stranger still." 

"Smooth his paces seemed to me, though I did not have the pleasure of riding him," Eomer said. "But you have ridden a few horses in your life, Master Dwarf. Tell me what you think of the elf’s new steed." 

"I think horses are a poor substitute for one’s own legs," Gimli stated. 

"I do not think many here would support that notion, my friend," a new voice said. Dwarf and king turned as Aragorn joined them. He was holding some kind of meat and was devouring it with slow relish, savoring the spicy flavor. Noticing the dwarf’s eyes on his food, Aragorn frowned slightly. "Have you had ought to eat, Gimli?" Gondor’s king asked. 

"I partook somewhat while riding, seeing as I had nothing else to do," Gimli answered. "But I will have something more ere long." 

"Where is Legolas?" Eomer wondered, realizing that the elf was not at his usual place beside Gimli. 

The dwarf grimaced, turned, and indicated the still form of the elf with a nod of his head. "He says he can smell the sea." 

Aragorn’s eyes softened and he sighed. "I wondered when we would venture too close for his comfort. I fear he will be in torment until we pass well into Harad. Would that there had been another way to journey." 

"Would that he had never heard the gulls," Gimli muttered. "I still remember when he disappeared several years ago and we found him a month later wandering the seashore. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been gone." The dwarf shook his head and studied his elven friend with compassion and sadness. "I feared he had set sail without a word to any of us. It is a fear I still carry with me, and I rejoice every day I can see him here in Middle Earth." 

"Yet Middle Earth will lose him one of these days," Aragorn predicted quietly. "He will leave its bounds and sail beyond the reach of mortal man, following in the path of many elves before him." 

"But not now," Gimli vowed, watching the elf carefully. "And not soon, if I can help it." 

"I will be the first to admit that I do not know much on the subject," Eomer spoke slowly, "but it appears to me that there is little anyone can do. It seems like a disease that cannot be cured, and ever will the longing gnaw at his heart until he submits to its demands and departs from us." 

"Verily, it is much like a disease," Aragorn agreed. "And I fear you have it aright, Eomer. He will not be cured until he leaves. And until then, he is doomed to wander in torment." Aragorn fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, and then shook his head slightly. "Well, I shall bid you a good night, or a good morning as the case may be. I must seek sleep while I can. You would be wise to do the same. I have posted guards already, so there is no need to appoint a watch." 

"Thank you, Aragorn, and I shall heed your words," Eomer said. "A good rest to you, and to you, too, Gimli." 

"And to you and your family," the dwarf replied absently, his eyes still on the elf. 

Eomer and Aragorn exchanged concerned looks, but realizing they could do nothing, they left the dwarf to his own devices. The sun rose further into the sky and most of the host sought such beds as could be contrived, but still Legolas looked to the sea. And Gimli continued to watch his friend until he felt the grasping hand of sleep creeping over his mind. He struggled against its grip, but he realized he could not hold out for long against such a relentless foe. With this bitter knowledge directing his actions, the dwarf moved to lie down behind the silent, motionless elf, hoping that maybe his presence would help to anchor the prince in Middle Earth. If Legolas noticed him, he gave no sign, and Gimli knew he could do nothing more. 

"I don’t think you can hear me, Legolas," he whispered as he closed his eyes and abandoned reality for dreams, "but I must tell you this. Remember that you are wanted and needed here in Middle Earth. I would not have you leave me, nor would Aragorn have you leave us. There is still much to be done and much to see, and there is no one else I would rather have by my side. No one! Not even another dwarf!" And having said this, Gimli gave in to the onslaught of sleep. His breathing became deep and steady, and the cares of the day—or in this case the night—were banished to dark, forgetful places. 

But had Gimli managed to stay awake a moment longer, he might have been comforted, for after a few minutes, a bright elven gaze turned his direction. Considering the dwarf who now lay sleeping, the owner of that gaze shook his head wearily. This friendship worked both ways, and there was no one else, including other elves, that Legolas would rather have beside him on journeys or merely joining him for dinner and a bit of friendly banter. And their friendship ran deep enough that it overcame the ever-present longing for the sea. Well, for now anyway. 

" _U-gwannathan ir deridh_ ," the elf sighed, speaking softly in his own tongue." _Dan i aer cad enni ui, meldirn. I aer cad enni ui_." 

* * * *

When sunset came again, Aragorn roused all who slept. Gimli rose reluctantly, aware of a stiffness in his joints from the rigorous riding of the previous night. Legolas had not slept nor did he seem in any way affected by it or by the long hours they had already put into the trail. And for the dwarf’s sake, this evening he even refrained from speaking of the sea, though it was obvious that the sea was continually on his mind. Still, Gimli appreciated the elf’s effort on his behalf and took heart that Legolas had not wholly forgotten his comrades. 

"Did you enjoy your rest?" the elf asked as Gimli rubbed sleep from his eyes. 

_More than you enjoyed yours, I daresay,_ the dwarf thought. "I would have enjoyed it more if I could have had a few additional hours in which to sleep," he said aloud, hoping to lure Legolas into friendly banter. 

Legolas smiled, touched by the gesture. He was well aware of what the dwarf was attempting to do, and though he did not feel up to it, he decided to humor Gimli for the moment. "Is that why dwarves are able to endure the depths of their caves? Have they nothing to do but sleep?" 

Gimli could easily see that Legolas’s heart was not in the jest, but he took it as a hopeful sign that the elf was even willing to make an attempt. "It seems to me that sleep is more useful than the endless songs you weave about the trees and the stars," he retorted, watching the elf’s face closely. 

"Perhaps." Legolas looked away, unconsciously turning his gaze south toward the sea. "I will go and seek Faensul. Doubtless Aragorn will wish to continue the journey soon." And with that, the elf walked away, his normally light feet dragging slightly. 

Gimli’s spirits fell as Legolas abandoned the game and the dwarf to search for the horse. With a frustrated sigh, he turned away and stalked toward Aragorn who stood watching the preparations of the others in the moonlight. 

"What troubles you, Gimli?" the king asked, though he felt he already knew the answer. 

"It will grow worse as we go south, won’t it?" the dwarf asked. 

"Most likely. Where is he?" 

"He has gone to find Faensul. He will return shortly." 

Aragorn nodded, glancing at the preparations of his men once more before turning his full attention back to the dwarf. "It bothers you, doesn’t it? It is a thing you cannot understand and are powerless to alter. And someday it may take him from us. And when that day comes, there is nothing that can be done to stop the forces at work in his heart." 

"What drives him?" Gimli demanded. "What drives that elf to long for the sea? Is not Ithilien fair enough for him? Does he not have enough of his kindred for company? Is our friendship so barren that he must seek other lands?" 

"I think, Gimli, that our friendship, and perhaps yours specifically, is one of the few things holding him here," Aragorn said gently. "I am surprised he has not already left, and he must value his mortal friends greatly. I have seen the longing for the sea in other Sindarin elves, and it is a grievous hurt to them until they surrender to its commands. He may not show it, but the sea is always in his heart. And when that sea is within reach, he can no longer hide the desire from those around him." 

"Your words bring me no comfort," Gimli sighed. "I would that he had never heard the gulls as we rode to save Gondor. The Paths of the Dead they are still called, but other names I could give them now. Pain and sundering come to mind." 

"What is done cannot be undone," Aragorn said. "Would you that we had never taken that road and so left Gondor to be burned?" 

"No. Yes. Perhaps. In truth, I cannot say. I know only that my friend suffers greatly and that no act of mine can aid him. Nor can I help him bear his suffering as I have no understanding of what he faces." 

"You have a great heart, Gimli," Aragorn said quietly. "And I think you do aid him, though you may not see it. Your presence, as a reminder of why he tarries, brings comfort to him. He knows that he does not suffer for naught. Go now. He approaches and he will need your strength as we draw closer to the sea. We will reach Dol Amroth by morning and I fear the cry of the gulls will be hard on his ears." 

Gimli looked around and quickly caught sight of Legolas walking toward him. If such an action could be ascribed to an elf, Gimli would have said that he was trudging. The normal spring in his step was gone, and the sparkle in his eyes that could bring mirth to an entire forest was dim and vague. Sensing his master’s mood, even Faensul was somber and quiet this evening. The proud arch of his neck did not seem so proud, and he watched Legolas closely as though looking for ways to break through the elf’s melancholy. 

"He walks as though one who prepares for a funeral," a voice whispered behind the dwarf and king. Eomer stepped forward and eyed the elf critically. "Should we send him across Anduin and ask him to wait for us on the borders of Harad? I fear what taking him closer to the sea will do." 

"He would not go," Aragorn answered. "It would be an affront to his pride, and he would refuse to leave us. In any case, it would be unwise to send one rider, or two if Gimli goes with him, so close to such a dangerous country." 

"He will endure this," Gimli said firmly. "And I will help him. But I would that we journey quickly into Harad, for the longer we tarry by the sea, the worse he will grow until he is aware of nothing but the cry of the gulls." And with that, the dwarf moved forward toward the elf who had stopped and was regarding them all with suspicion and a bit of irritation. "How fares your horse?" Gimli asked, hoping to divert the elf’s attention. 

"I do not desire your pity," Legolas said testily, a flash of anger appearing briefly in his eyes. 

"Oh?" Gimli grasped madly for suitable responses to that. "Then perhaps you would better appreciate my condescension? For how else shall a dwarf regard an elf?" 

It was a long shot and Gimli knew it, but he had an intuitive feeling that insults were better than awkward words of comfort at this point in time. Hardly daring to breathe, he watched anxiously as Legolas regarded him through narrowed, stormy eyes. At long last, the corners of the elf’s mouth started to twitch though the rest of his face remained stern and uncompromising. Gimli heaved a silent sigh of relief. 

"How shall a dwarf regard an elf?" Legolas echoed, and now his eyes lightened somewhat, though shadows still lurked. "With homage and worship, if that dwarf possesses a modicum of intelligence." 

"Worship? You have done nothing to prove you worthy of worship, my friend," Gimli snorted. "What good is singing in the trees? We dwarves are the builders of nations and the forgers of fine metal. How shall elves compete with that?" 

Legolas was prevented from responding when a clear trumpet rang out, signaling that the ride was about to begin and the company should mount. Faensul tossed his head at the call, eager to be off and prove his paces to the other horses. Gimli moved to the stallion’s side and Legolas aided him in mounting before leaping onto the horse himself. By now accustomed to the procedure, Faensul trotted swiftly to Aragorn’s side and stopped, waiting for the signal to move out. 

"And so another day as baggage begins," Gimli sighed. 

"And thus we see how the mighty builder of nations and forger of fine metal is fallen," Legolas laughed. 

"Watch what you say, Master Elf, for this baggage has an axe." 

"A most unsuitable weapon for baggage. Perhaps you had best let me handle it." 

"You? Legolas, I have seen you try to wield my axe and I still laugh to think of it. You were a greater danger to yourself than to anyone else." 

"I merely followed your example," the elf answered. The dwarf harrumphed and Legolas smiled. Glancing over at Aragorn, Legolas could see him laughing slightly at the interchange between elf and dwarf. "Are we ready to depart, my liege?" he asked. 

"Perhaps a moment more," Aragorn answered. "Some of the Rohirrim are rearranging their saddle bags." 

With a nod, the elf turned his eyes southward. Once more, he could sense the presence of the sea, and he could dimly see a great field of blue in the far distance. But now, a more immediate presence sat behind him, and Legolas could feel concern and fear emanating from his friend. In a strange way it was a comfort, and the elf felt his need to sea the great waters on the horizon diminish in the wake of the dwarf’s powerful friendship. "Gimli?" 

"Yes?" Gimli sounded anxious, as well he might be. Legolas could feel himself slipping back into his earlier depression. 

"Thank you." 

A moment of silence, and then one of dwarf’s hands that clutched tightly at the elf’s tunic moved to his shoulder and rested there for a moment. "You are welcome, my friend." 

Faensul moved restlessly beneath them and Gimli quickly grabbed for Legolas’s tunic again, fearful of falling from the tall horse. Legolas laughed, though his laugh seemed filled with pain, and then he turned to Aragorn who was watching the activities of the Rohirrim closely. Finally, all seemed in readiness. Turning Arnor around, Aragorn raised his hand and cried aloud. The company set off with a flurry of hooves, galloping swiftly southward and passing as shadows into the warm, summer night. 

* * * *

_U-gwannathan ir deridh._ _Dan i aer cad enni ui, meldirn. I aer cad enni ui_ —I will not depart while you remain. But the sea calls me always, my friend. The sea calls me always. 


	3. Misgivings and Perceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Aragorn drew a tight rein on Arnor, and as his mount slowed and stopped in response, the company behind him halted as well. The long night was coming to an end, and finally within sight of mortal eyes, the glittering towers of Dol Amroth rose against the horizon. Coated with a layer of crushed seashells, the walls of the castle caught the first rays of the morning sun like diamonds on the seashore, and beyond the fortress lay the sea itself, a massive swelling of crystal blue trimmed with whitecaps as the morning breeze stirred the swirling water. A clear horn cry rang out from Dol Amroth, and behind Aragorn, Imhran, the captain of Gondor’s guard, let loose an answering call. Awakened by the sounds, a flock of seagulls took flight, crying out their protests and dipping over Dol Amroth as though they debated whether to roost again or to start the day.

Upon seeing the gulls, Aragorn looked to his left at Legolas and Gimli. Legolas’s eyes were closed and his breathing was fast. Aragorn thought he had never seen the elf look so uncomfortable save once before, and that was nearly eight years ago when they wandered through the dark underground caverns of Moria. Behind the prince, Gimli was glaring balefully at the gulls in the distance as though he would look to take each one personally and put an end to its life.

The sound of a cleared throat on his right side drew Aragorn’s attention away from the suffering elf. Eomer had also been watching the two, but now he glanced back at the host that waited behind him. The riders were restless and tired, and the horses were in need of stables and bed.

Aragorn sighed and nodded to show he understood Eomer’s unspoken message. With reluctance, he spurred his horse forward into a swift trot. He wondered now if he shouldn’t have spoken to Legolas ere they drew this close to the sea. But what could he have said that the elf didn’t already know? And how should the words of a man comfort an immortal possessed of a longing so great that the mere sight of the sea could cause him to stiffen in pain? Perhaps Arwen should have journeyed with them as far as Dol Amroth. She had more of an understanding of Legolas’s sea-longing than Aragorn did, but the sight of those great waters also brought her pain, for they reminded her of her father, Elrond. Aragorn shook his head in frustration. It seemed that every being destined for a measure of greatness was also fated to endure sorrows untold. He had always known that the phrase "happily ever after" had no place in reality, but as he now watched this truth bear itself out among his friends and loved ones, Aragorn fervently wished he could change that fact.

Another horn cry was now sounding from Dol Amroth, and out of the castle came a procession of mounted riders bearing the emblem of a silver swan. At their head rode a man who, from a distance, might have been mistaken for an elf as his countenance and heritage made manifest his distant elven ancestry.

"Hail, King of Gondor!" Prince Imrahil cried as he drew near the approaching hosts. "And hail, King of Rohan. In good time are you come, my friends!"

"Hail to you, Prince Imrahil," Aragorn answered, though he was now secretly troubled. To his trained ear, the prince had sounded harried and anxious, and Aragorn’s Ranger instincts were instantly on alert. "I trust all is well with you."

"It is, my liege," Imrahil answered, pulling his mount to a halt as he drew nigh unto Aragorn, but once again, that tiny note of uncertainty entered his voice. "Quarters have been prepared for you and your men so that you may find such rest as you can," the prince continued. "I also have skins of fresh water, packs of food, and have laden the lead horses with tents and other provisions."

"You have done well and I thank you," Aragorn said, studying the prince intently. Something was amiss, but he had yet to define what. The men with Imrahil showed now sign of trouble and Aragorn discerned that whatever bothered the prince was something he had kept private. "Perhaps you and I may have a talk if time permits," Aragorn said carefully, gauging Imrahil’s reaction. "I have things I would discuss with you."

Something flashed in Imrahil’s eyes, but what it was, Aragorn could not tell. The prince nodded, though, and smiled. "Of course, my liege. Now, if you will allow it, my guards and I shall escort you to Dol Amroth."

"When shall we meet with the Haradrim delegation?" Eomer asked.

"They are camped a few miles away. I believe they feel safer that way. They have promised to come to the castle this evening where we shall dine together. In the meantime, I have prepared quarters for you and your men where you may rest and refresh yourselves."

"Lead on, then," Aragorn said with a wave of his arm. "We shall follow." The group moved forward, but as they did so, Eomer turned his horse toward Aragorn so that they rode closely together.

"Is ought wrong?" Eomer asked, his voice hushed.

"Something troubles Imrahil," Aragorn replied quietly. "It may be nothing more than a personal matter, but I feel this is not so. He is concerned about something, and I think it would be wise if you and I had a private conversation with him before meeting with the representatives from Harad’s main tribes."

"It will be as you counsel," Eomer promised. "And if I may aid you in any way, you have but to let me know. My men and I are under your command."

The glistening castle now loomed above them and here Prince Imrahil stopped and turned aside. "We have constructed stables for your horses," he explained. "They were made in haste, but the workmanship is good and they should serve you well for the time you are here."

Eomer looked at the wooden structures with a critical eye and smiled. "They are more than adequate and I thank you." The horse lord turned to his Rohirrim and at his signal, they dismounted. Aragorn signaled for his men to do likewise. Grooms came forth to lead the horses away, but as at Minas Tirith, there was trouble when one came to take Faensul.

Legolas had dismounted on command, though Gimli had wondered if he’d truly known what he was doing, but he now seemed heedless of all that went on around him. His eyes were fixed on the sea that splashed into the rocky shore not more than a league away. Faensul, sensing the elf’s distraction, had appointed himself as his master’s protector and neighed loudly in warning when one of Imrahil’s men approached them.

"Legolas!" Aragorn called sharply, but the elf might as well have been in another world. Faensul whinnied and reared, lashing out with his forelegs.

"Faensul!" Gimli cried, leaping in front of the stallion. With a snort, the horse came back down and tossed his head at the dwarf. "Easy, Faensul," Gimli continued, and the horse seemed to calm a bit, though he bared his teeth and laid his ears back at the gathered men who were now watching the scene intently. Gingerly, Gimli reached up and began stroking the base of the great mount’s neck. Faensul stomped his foot and swished his tail but made no other move.

"Gimli, see if you can waken Legolas," Aragorn instructed, keeping his voice low and calm.

Still stroking the horse’s neck, Gimli reached out and grabbed hold of the elf’s gauntlet-clad forearm. "Legolas? Legolas, you must come back to us. Legolas!" Faensul backed up and snorted at the tension in Gimli’s voice and the dwarf hurriedly calmed himself. "Legolas, we have need of you," he continued in a quieter tone, squeezing the elf’s arm tightly. "Come, my friend, I know you can hear me. Come back to us."

The elf stirred a bit and his eyes blinked. As though waking from a deep sleep, he shook his head slowly and staggered. Had Gimli not still been holding his arm, he might have fallen. As it was, he sagged against the dwarf and Gimli braced himself, holding the elf up as he slowly recovered his senses. Faensul bumped his head against Legolas’s back and nickered gently.

"Legolas?" Aragorn questioned.

"I…yes?" Legolas regained his balance and looked around in confusion as though realizing for the first time where he was.

"Legolas, Faensul is loath to leave your side," Eomer broke in. "Would you see to his needs and lead him to his stable?"

The elf immediately nodded, grasping at the request as though grasping for a hold on reality. Turning to Faensul, he spoke low words in his own tongue and then moved toward the stables. Faensul followed closely.

"Go with him, Gimli," Aragorn instructed quietly. "If ever he has been in need of companionship, he is in need now. Keep his mind occupied. When we meet with the Haradrim, it would not do to repeat a scene like this. And it is better for him if he does not dwell so on the sea. It only makes the longing worse."

"I will see that his mind remains here on the land until he tires of my presence and begs me to leave," Gimli vowed. "The elves may be patient, but the dwarves are stubborn and persistent. Leave him to me."

Comforted by the dwarf’s words, Aragorn smiled slightly and nodded. He watched as Gimli hurried after Legolas who had already disappeared into one of the stables and then turned to Imrahil who had looked on in astonishment. "Now, if you would show us to our quarters, we will take such actions as the day requires."

"This way, King Elessar," Imrahil said, recovering his composure quickly. "I trust you will find your accommodations comfortable. Your journey tonight will be hard and the desert is not a forgiving land. It will be best if you are well rested."

"I have endured the desert before," Aragorn reminded Imrahil. "But your words are true enough. Let us see to the men. After that, Eomer and I wish to speak to you for a few moments."

"It will be as you say," Imrahil said, once more with a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. "Come. This way, then, and we shall attend your needs."

* * * *

Gimli had not expected his task to be so difficult. It was only midmorning, and already the dwarf despaired of anchoring Legolas to reality for any appreciable length of time. After seeing that Faensul’s wants were met, the elf had left the stables without a word to anyone and had started walking toward the sea. Gimli, through persistent, wearying protests, had finally managed to stop him and convince him to return to the castle, saying that Aragorn might have need of them. But Legolas refused to go inside, electing to stand just outside the castle walls where he could easily watch the sea. When Gimli protested again, Legolas had briskly informed the dwarf that he desired to feel the breeze on his face and had afterward fallen quiet, saying nothing since then.

Gimli, on the other hand, could not be silenced. Struggling vainly to elicit some response from the elf, he had talked about anything and everything, with topics ranging from dwarven women to the fine art of crafting a pipe to the history of written law in Gondor. He now launched into detailed description of how to construct a long-range catapult for use in mountainous terrain, but he stopped when he noticed a glazed look entering Legolas’s eyes.

"Not again," he grumbled, seizing the elf’s arm and shaking him. "Legolas! Legolas, Ithilien is burning!"

The elf blinked and started forward only to be stopped by the dwarf’s tight grip on his arm. Turning to the dwarf, he frowned and looked about. Realizing where he was, he relaxed and resumed his previous position, looking mournfully out at the sea.

Watching him with bleak despair, something deep inside Gimli finally broke. He was fed up with his friend. Speech and physical contact had not worked. It was time for something a little more drastic. Leaving the elf for a moment, he hurried into the castle where sounds of a scuffle were soon heard and then he returned, bringing with him a large shield.

"Guard!" he ordered, practically throwing the heavy metal shield at the elf. By reflexes alone, Legolas was able to catch it and it seemed to shake him further out of his reverie.

"Gimli? What—"

"Guard!" Gimli commanded again, hefting his axe and swinging it toward the elf.

Instinctively, Legolas flung the shield up and the axe clanged harmlessly to the side. Legolas lowered it and tried once more to speak, but Gimli allowed him no time for that as he attacked with the axe again, this time in a low sweep. Jumping backwards, Legolas swung the shield low and caught the end of the axe on it, thrusting it off and then kicking forward with the bottom half of the shield and knocking it into Gimli’s feet. The dwarf stumbled slightly from the hit but immediately retaliated with a high, arcing swing. Legolas parried and spun, flinging the axe wide and moving closer to the dwarf as he did so, but Gimli had anticipated such a move and reversing the rotation of the axe, he slammed the thick haft into the elf’s side.

With a cry of surprise, Legolas staggered and dropped to one knee, keeping the shield high as he sensed more than saw the axe’s blade coming toward him. Tilting the shield slightly, Legolas got the axe to hit at an awkward angle and an overbalanced Gimli lost his hold on his weapon. Legolas pressed the momentary advantage by lunging forward and slamming the shield into the dwarf’s chest, but Gimli moved to the side quickly enough to only catch part of the blow. Leaping away, he rolled and caught his axe up again.

Jumping back into range, Gimli swung the axe around and up in a parody of an upper-cut. Legolas moved back and the blade whistled harmlessly in front of his raised shield. Then the elf was in again, hoping to advance quickly enough that Gimli would be unable to recover from his missed hit. But Gimli had grown up with the axe and had been trained in its use since birth. As the axe swung upward and Legolas moved forward, he turned the momentum of his weapon, using his own body as a counter-balance, and brought the axe smashing down on the top of the elf’s shield. Unprepared for such a blow, Legolas felt the shield wrenched from his grasp and then the haft of the axe rammed itself across his chest, knocking him to the ground.

Letting the axe fall, Gimli folded his arms and glared at the elf. "You might have warned me that you had perfected Aragorn’s trick of angling the shield."

" _I_ might have warned _you_?!" Legolas surged back to his feet with an angry glare of his own. "If I am not mistaken, that was an unprovoked attack."

"Attack? I was pulling my blows, Legolas, and if you had been more alert, you would have noticed that," Gimli retorted. "If anything, it was a bit of practice for me and a lesson for you."

"When did I become your bludgeoning target?" the elf demanded.

"When you ceased to remember that I was here," Gimli snapped. "And if you do not keep your mind focused, it will happen again. I suggest you carry that shield around with you in the event that I cannot find one on short notice. Otherwise, things might get painful."

"It would be a lie if I said I understood what you were talking about," Legolas said angrily.

"Are you so far gone already?" Gimli cried. "Do you not realize what you have been doing for the bulk of the morning? All you do is stare at the sea. The rest of the world ceases to exist and you are lost to us. Do you not understand how dangerous that is?"

Legolas stared at Gimli in utter confusion. "I…I have been staring at the sea?"

Gimli sighed and nodded, feeling some of his anger at the elf drain away. "You have done little else, my friend."

With a frown, the elf looked at the sky. "When did we arrive here?"

"Just after sunrise."

"But that cannot be," Legolas said quietly. "It is now nearly midday."

"If nothing else, it has been a long morning," Gimli grumbled.

Legolas looked at the shield, then at the dwarf, and then back at the shield. "Where did you get this?"

"A guard inside loaned it to me," the dwarf answered rather evasively. "He will be indisposed for the next few hours, so you may keep it until then."

"Indisposed?"

"He was reluctant to part with the shield and I was forced to convince him otherwise."

Legolas shook his head in wonder at this strange, emotional, impulsive being he thought of as a friend. "Were you to have acted so in Minas Tirith, I would not have spoken out had Aragorn decided to throw you in chains."

"Were we in Minas Tirith, I would not have needed the shield in the first place," Gimli returned. "And even if I had, the guards there are respectful enough that they would have given it to me."

The elf sighed and gave the dwarf a small, sad smile. "No, you would not have needed the shield in Minas Tirith. My apologies, Gimli, and my thanks. You have taken great pains on my behalf."

"No more than you would take on mine," Gimli answered. "But will you come inside now, Legolas? I think it would aid you if you could not see that for which you long."

"Aid me? Nay, I fear I am beyond aid, Master Dwarf. But if it will ease your heart, I will go inside. And mayhap we can find other things that will occupy our time. I would not see you severely wounded in another practice with axe and shield."

"Your fear is groundless, my friend, but I do fear for your sake," Gimli said. "Almost I took your head, and I now wonder how I would explained that to Aragorn and Eomer. Although," he continued with a sly glance at the elf, "such an action might have been an improvement."

Legolas laughed, and in that laugh Gimli could hear real mirth. The pain was still there, but now there was an opposing note of joy that Gimli hoped to encourage. "It would be an improvement only in your eyes," Legolas said, still laughing. "You would rid yourself of your superior, and perhaps others would be able to see you without seeing the greater being who walks beside you."

"Where is this greater being you speak of?" Gimli asked, making a show of looking around. "I would meet with him."

The elf laughed again, though now his laugh was quieter, and he looked back out to the sea. "Perhaps he does not really exist," Legolas said at length. "Perhaps he is merely a shell, and his essence has already fled this broken world."

"Legolas?"

The elf shook his head and turned to the dwarf. "Let us go inside. I fear I am poor company out here."

Gimli let out a small sigh of relief. "You will get no argument from me on that point. This way, then. There are quarters prepared for us if you wish to rest. And I do not think you slept yesterday."

"No, I didn’t," Legolas murmured, glancing toward the sea once more.

The dwarf mumbled something less than flattering under his breath and took the elf firmly by the arm. "You are tempting fate, Master Elf, and if you continue, you will have to take up your shield again. Take your eyes from the waters and look toward the castle." Gimli started forward, pulling Legolas along with him. "You will not find your mortal friends out there," he continued when he felt the elf resist a bit. "If you truly value our presence and wish for us to value yours, then you will rest in the fair halls of Prince Imrahil and rise refreshed, ready to journey again tonight."

"Does Aragorn intend to continue the journey at sunset?" Legolas asked, tearing his eyes away from the seashore and the flapping gulls as they passed through the main gate and into the castle.

"I do not know, but it would be prudent to prepare for such an event," Gimli answered.

"You surprise me," Legolas said with a smile. "Your words hold wisdom and I feel I must hearken to them."

"You surprise me for recognizing wisdom when it is given," the dwarf retorted. "Now come. Our quarters lie this way and you must sleep."

"As must you."

"I will take my rest only when I see that you are taking yours," Gimli said gruffly. "And I will listen to no more talk," he added when Legolas moved to protest. "Either you sleep or we will hone our skills with weapons. And I do not think Aragorn would be well pleased to learn that you have stolen shields from Imrahil’s guards."

For the second time that day, a burst of real mirth could be heard in Legolas’s laughter. "It will be as you counsel, Gimli. Lead me to my room and I will sleep. But promise me that you will also sleep."

"That promise I give gladly," Gimli said. "For my heart warns me that we will need all our strength and energy for the days ahead."

"I also feel that warning," Legolas said quietly. "For our sakes, I hope we are wrong. But something dark is stirring. We must be prepared."

* * * *

Aragorn shook his head in frustration and wondered just how much elven blood ran in Imrahil’s veins. After showing them to their quarters, the prince had vanished and neither Aragorn nor Eomer had been able to find him since. None of his knights seemed to know where he was, and members of his household were equally ignorant. It reminded Aragorn very much of hunting Legolas in Southern Ithilien with Gimli when the prince did not wish to be found. The ability to simply disappear was an innate talent of the elves, one they usually took for granted, and it seemed that Imrahil had inherited this gift.

"As near as I can tell, he is not outside the castle walls," Eomer reported, meeting Aragorn in the main hall. "Nor is he in the courtyard."

"The parapets and turrets are also empty save for a few guards," Aragorn sighed in return. "Even his own quarters seem vacated."

"Think you that we ought to leave off this search and seek our own rest?" Eomer questioned. "He did promise to introduce us to the delegation from Harad this evening and dine with us here in this hall. There would be time enough for talk then, and at least we would have taken some sleep."

"I do not believe this talk cannot wait until the evening," Aragorn answered, walking out of the hall and into the fair courtyard beyond. "Something about his manner alerted me. I fear what may happen if we do not inquire of him now."

"Yet we cannot inquire anything of him if we do not know where he is," Eomer reasoned. "And we are not aiding ourselves for we are not taking this allotted time to rest. The stain of travel hangs weary on me and we have yet a week of riding before we can reach Haradhur, or so you have said. Should we not take such opportunities as are presented us? We do not have the opportunity to speak to Imrahil, but we do have the opportunity for sleep."

"Opportunities are made or lost by men, and if we continue to seek Imrahil, we will find him," Aragorn said. "Rest if you wish, but I will continue the search. And I do not think it will be a fruitless search for much longer."

"Where, then, shall we look for him?"

Aragorn stood for a moment in silence, pondering over what he could suggest to Eomer, and then smiled as the answer came to him. His thoughts had led him down this path readily enough as they spoke of elves and of Legolas, but he had not seen the implications of their direction. Turning away from Eomer, he started for the main entrance to Dol Amroth’s castle. "I think we shall find him where many of the elven race or those of elven blood go to pause for thought. We shall find him by the sea."

* * * *

Wave upon wave in an endless cycle crashed against the rocky shore. Sprays of water shot upward, propelled by the force with which they hit the beach, and then disappeared only to be replaced by new advances of waves. In many ways, it could be likened to an army. Advancing ranks fell and new battalions surged forward in a never-ending battle for supremacy. Ever the shore repelled the sea as defenders of a fortress might repel invaders, but as time wore on and as wave after wave swirled against the rocks, the fortress would eventually fall, and then would come a new kingdom and a new dynasty.

Watching this interplay of nature, Prince Imrahil sighed and folded his arms across his chest, bowing his head as he surrendered himself to his feelings of misgiving. He had always prided himself on his ability to perceive the heart of friend or foe with an accuracy rivaling that of any elf, but now his senses were troubled and he had only a vague sense of foreboding. Yet that feeling was enough to trouble him, for it was a foreboding unlike any he had ever had before. Something…something was desperately wrong. But he could not with clearly explain what. One thing only he knew with certainty: danger lay in Harad. If King Aragorn and King Eomer left for that country, they and all that went with them would be in dire peril.

But how did one broach this subject to a descendent of Elendil and Isildur? Surely Aragorn was quite capable of defending himself and taking his own counsel in need. Would the vague misgivings of a prince be heeded? Imrahil suspected they would be, for he knew that Aragorn was a man to take into account all details. But how he could he impress upon his king the fact that he had never before been wrong. His feelings had always been accurate. And how could he explain just what he felt when he had confronted some of the tribal leaders from Harad? There was power in them, power that lurked beneath the surface and fled whenever he came close to discovering its source. It was a dangerous power and an evil one, or so he felt, but he could not even begin to define what he thought it was.

"I need more information," Imrahil sighed, looking back out at the white caps that continued to roll in. "With that I may prove my word. But where shall I find this and what form shall it take?"

"Perhaps we may aid you with that, Prince Imrahil. In any event, it would be wise to share with us the object of your search."

Usually so keen of hearing that no one took him by surprise, Imrahil leaped and turned. His quick, gray eyes widened at the sigh of a rather amused Aragorn and an impatient Eomer. "My liege," he stammered, unsure of how much Aragorn had overheard or how much he guessed.

"You promised to speak with us ere we rested, but when the time came, you were not to be found," Aragorn continued, watching Imrahil closely. "You should have told us of your intention to speak here."

"It was not my intention to speak here," the prince responded before he realized what he was saying. He quietly cursed himself and wondered what Aragorn’s response to this confession would be.

"I see," Gondor’s king said slowly. "Where, then, would you like to speak? The day grows long, and I would rest ere this evening. Eomer, too, is anxious to seek a soft bed before we resume our journey tonight."

Aragorn was clearly not going to give up, and Imrahil was beginning to realize that the king of Gondor had read him like a book. All his attempts at hiding his feelings of trouble had apparently been for naught. "I did not intend to speak here," Imrahil eventually said, "but since we are here, we may as well make use of the privacy. What would you speak about, my liege? If it lies within my power to provide answers, you shall have them."

"I wish to know you opinions concerning this invitation from the Haradrim," Aragorn said, wasting no time in striking at the heart of the subject. "If I am not mistaken, you are not at ease. Do you have some misgiving or foreboding that should be told?"

Imrahil was silent for a moment, considering the question and how to answer it. "Yes," he said at length. "Something is wrong. I have felt so since the delegates first arrived, yet I cannot pin down what troubles me. But there is a…a darkness. I do not know how else to describe it. Darkness shadows them, and I cannot see beyond its veil."

"Can you explain that more clearly?" Eomer asked. "Are there any in particular who give you this dark feeling?"

The prince began to pace, trying to put vague thoughts and impressions into concrete words and ideas. "It is as a breath of cold air on my neck. I think…I think perhaps some of the Haradrim are more dangerous than others, but I do not know which those might be. I know only that I shiver at their approach ere I even know they are near. They cloud my thoughts, and easy things become hard and obscure when they are around. And even with all this, I feel there is something more…" Imrahil trailed off and looked to the sea, eventually shaking his head. "I truly know nothing more than what I have told you save this: my feelings have never been wrong. Every misgiving I have ever had and every foreboding I have ever experienced has always been fulfilled in one way or another. My lieges, if you journey into Harad, you journey into danger."

"We assumed as much already," Aragorn said. "Is there more you can tell us by which to validate our fears?"

"Something dark is at work, more dangerous than the intrigues that one leader may have for another. I fear some sorcery or craft is to blame, and I do not know what to make of that." Imrahil sighed and shook his head. "Long have I known that evil hides in the desert, but never have I felt it so clearly."

"Sauron recruited heavily out of Harad," Aragorn mused quietly. "He had there many agents and many spies. But I would have thought that with his fall, they too would have fallen or at least dwindled into obscurity."

"That was my belief as well," Imrahil agreed. "And for the last seven years, such were my observations. Evil fell and vanished. But now…now it seems it has arisen again and in greater strength. Or if not greater strength, at least greater purpose."

"What do you believe that purpose to be?" Eomer questioned.

"I do not know, and I feel so uncertain that I dare not hazard a guess lest we follow my counsel to disaster," Imrahil admitted.

"Yet these men have been living under your roof for almost a week now," Aragorn said. "It required that long to send word to Eomer, Faramir, Gimli, and Legolas. Surely you know or guess something of their intentions."

"Perhaps," the prince said reluctantly. "Some I feel are honest enough. They are diplomats and politicians, and so there is always some secret agenda, but for some, I feel their secrets are much darker."

"Know you of any we can trust?" Aragorn asked. "For in such a journey as this, even though I have traveled the country, it would be a great help if we had an ally from within."

"I feel…" Imrahil trailed off, thinking long and hard. "The leader of the delegation is a man called Mohart," he eventually said. "He is from the Gartabo tribe and belongs to their five member governing council. I have dealt with him before and he has been reliable in his dealings. He feared the Nameless Land during its years of power, but I do not believe he or his tribe ever served it. They are largely agrarian based and grow such food as the desert allows. They may have paid tribute to the Enemy, but they did so out of terror, not loyalty."

"That is at least a start," Aragorn mused. "Come then, Imrahil. Tell us of the other members of the delegation? What is their number and strength?"

"All are men of renown and standing in their tribes, and most are from influential and powerful tribes," Imrahil said, grateful that he now had a question to which he could give informed answers. "Those that are not are at least from tribes that might interest Gondor and Rohan. One is from a tribe with great mineral wealth and another is from a tribe gifted in the making of fine silks. All told, there are nine delegates."

Aragorn stiffened slightly at this and Eomer regarded him curiously. "Is there significance to the number nine?"

"There were nine Ringwraiths," Aragorn said. "That in and of itself should be an omen to you, Eomer. But in this case, there is more to it. According to some traditions in Harad, the number ten represents perfection. The number nine is one short of perfection and seen as flawed and marred. By sending nine delegates instead of ten, they dishonor us. I do not know who arranged for that number, but I suspect they did not think we would know its significance. Yet when we ride into Haradhur behind nine delegates, it will be a mark against us that may be difficult to overcome."

"They would seek to dishonor us from the outset?" Eomer sounded outraged, and Aragorn hurried to intervene.

"I said some traditions, not all. It is quite possible that some of the tribes have no knowledge of the significance of this number, but I do know that other tribes are very aware of it. This slight is probably a result of only a few tribes who thought to gain some advantage over us." Aragorn thought for a moment and then turned to Imrahil. "Is there a way in which one of these tribal members can be detained here, and so we would journey to Haradhur with only eight?"

Prince Imrahil smiled, and a mischievous gleam flickered in his eyes. "I am sure such a thing can be easily arranged," he promised. "We will hold a short meal to honor your departure and after the dinner, I think one of them will not wish to travel."

"Then we had best make certain that your unfortunate victim is one you suspect strongly of ill intentions," Eomer advised with a sly grin of his own. "I would not lose our ally to your slight of hand."

"Trust in the prince of Dol Amroth," Imrahil said with a bow. "I shall not fail you, my liege lords, and when you set out tonight, eight shall guide your way."


	4. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Gimli, son of Gloin, awoke with a start and a jerk. 

He had overslept. 

Cursing furiously beneath his breath, he tumbled off the soft bed and threw on the clothes he had shed before retiring. He noted his wrist ached and attributed it to the Legolas’s shield tilt earlier that day when he had lost his hold on his axe. It would be sore for a few days, but it would not interfere with anything he did. That was a relief. 

Tossing on his short corselet of chain mail, the dwarf grabbed his axe and hurried out of the room. He raced down the hall and skidded to a halt before Legolas’s room, pounding furiously on the door. The elf had fallen asleep almost immediately after going to bed, and Gimli doubted he could have awakened on his own had his life depended on it. When there was no answer, the dwarf cracked the door open and peaked into the room. What he saw loose his tongue again and a torrent of foul curses came forth. The elf had not only left but had also packed up all his belongings, neatly folded the covers on the bed, and thoughtfully left a note for Gimli.   
  

_If you receive this message in time, I believe we are meeting in the main hall with Imrahil before meeting with the delegation from Harad. You would be wise to join us soon as we would not want to reveal your sluggish nature so soon in the introductions. I intended to wake you, but your snores through the wall stopped me. I did not wish to interrupt so good a sleep or so lovely a symphony. Make haste, Master Dwarf._

_Legolas_   
  

"Snores?" Gimli grunted angrily. "He has obviously never listened to himself." What that had to do with anything was beyond the dwarf for Legolas didn’t make a sound when he slept, but it felt better to say it anyway. Tossing the note onto the immaculate floor and hoping that this would somehow make the elf appear less perfect, he took off through the door and headed for the main hall. 

Tripping down a flight of stairs and rolling to an unceremonious halt at their base, Gimli directed a stern glower at the guards looking on, daring them to laugh, and hurried forward, finally catching sight of the tall doors that marked the entrance to Imrahil’s main hall and dining center. It was a tall building and based on its situation and the fact that it was not connected with the rest of the castle, one might have guessed it to be a citadel. But it was not a building that could be easily defended, nor was it ever intended to be used as a citadel. It was, instead, a place to greet and entertain guests or to hold great feasts. Dol Amroth itself was a place of such fortification that the ancient architects who’d designed it had seen little use for a citadel and so had created a dining room instead. Warriors and princes during the Third Age had often heaped curses upon these aesthetic architects for a citadel would have been a great comfort against the Corsairs of Umbar or the raiding Haradrim in the service of Sauron. But Dol Amroth had withstood the test of time and war, and its main hall continued to be used as such—a hall. 

Gimli paused to catch his breath before he pushed open the doors. He stashed his axe securely in his belt, ran his fingers through his beard in a futile attempt to brush it out, and straightened his tunic. Feeling that all was in readiness, he gave the great doors a shove and walked imperiously forward, looking for all the world like he had intended to make his entrance at this very time. 

"You are late, Gimli," Eomer observed. 

The dwarf sighed and sent the horse lord a dark glare. Beside Rohan’s king, Legolas cleared his throat and then tugged at his tunic. Gimli blinked and the elf repeated the motion, at the end nodding in Gimli’s direction. Afraid of what he might find, the dwarf glanced down and groaned. He had put his chain mail on backwards. 

"This night is not starting well," Gimli grumbled as he fumbled with the heavy metal and eventually managed to right it. 

Prince Imrahil looked away, hiding a smile, and Aragorn shook his head before turning back to Eomer. "Are all your guard assembled?" 

"All save three who are guarding the horses and the baggage," Eomer answered. 

"My guards could easily do that," Imrahil offered. 

"Your pardon, prince, but both my men and I would feel better knowing that our horses are looked after by our own kin. They are as family to us, and I mean no disrespect or offense to you, but—" 

"No offense is taken," Imrahil replied. "I understand the need to look after that which is your own. I only thought to give you the option should you be interested. Are we ready then? My men send word that the delegation approaches." 

Aragorn folded his arms and thought for a moment, glancing at Eomer, the Rohirrim lined up against the wall, and then at his own men who stood in readiness behind him. "Let them come to us," he finally said. "Show them into the courtyard, but we will not go forth until they have waited for a time. They have sought to slight us with their nine delegates. Let us show that we are ready to reciprocate." 

"Are the preparations made for dinner?" Eomer asked, and Gimli judged from his tone that he was not lightly inquiring about the readiness of the food. 

"They are," Prince Imrahil answered, his tone also indicating that more lay behind his words than might be guessed. "It was easy enough to arrange, and I think all shall be pleased by the results." 

Gimli now stood by Legolas and shot a questioning glance at the elf. The prince of Mirkwood bore a rather thoughtful expression and was studying Imrahil with piercing gray eyes. Sensing Gimli’s gaze, he glanced at the dwarf and quirked a questioning eyebrow. Gimli shrugged in response and the elf grimaced slightly. 

"It would seem that plans are already underway," he said quietly. 

"Doubtless they will be made known to us in time," Gimli returned. 

The elf nodded, though it did not look as though his elven curiosity had abated in the slightest. Eventually, he gave himself a shake and turned mischievous eyes towards the dwarf. "So you were able to rise from your repose?" 

"Yes, I was, no thanks to you," Gimli growled. 

"How could I interrupt so sweet a song or so deep a sleep?" the elf asked. 

"Better to interrupt than to have me arrive late," Gimli said, self-consciously glancing down at his chain mail that now hung correctly. He frowned and then gave his friend a piercing stare. 

"What?" the elf asked. 

"How are you this evening?" 

Legolas sighed, knowing exactly to what his friend referred, but the elf felt reluctant to speak on the subject. He seemed to have his longing for the sea under control for now, but it was really an elaborate charade and there was no guarantee that his outer control would last long. He wished to appear controlled and disciplined as befitted an elf, but if he sought to answer the dwarf in that way, Gimli would see through the lie as easily as one might see through a window. 

"I have been better," he finally answered, opting for the truth rather than an attempt at deception. "But I have also been worse." 

"I see." Gimli drummed his fingers along the haft of his axe thoughtfully. "Will you be requiring a shield tonight?" 

Legolas laughed quietly. "I do not think so. The rest has done me good, and I am in better possession of my faculties now than I was earlier today. But it would be well if you stayed nearby," the elf confessed, sobering slightly. "If we ride along the coast, my mind may wander and I may need your assistance." 

This uncharacteristic admission caught Gimli off-guard, but he made no jest about it, sensing that it also caught Legolas by surprise. "I will be with you, my friend," the dwarf promised, keeping his voice hushed. "And if your mind strays too far, I will be there to aid you. Have no fear, for together we may keep this longing at bay." 

"I fear it is too late for that, Gimli, but your presence shall be a comfort," Legolas said, unknowingly repeating Aragorn’s words from the previous evening. "There is still much to see and much to do in Middle Earth, and I would share it with you yet a while a longer." 

The last part of that statement was not particularly comforting, but Gimli decided to ignore it for the moment. Instead, he began a critical study of the main hall’s arching pillars and wondered why the architects of man hadn’t made this a citadel. He was coming to the conclusion that man constructed things with no care for rhyme or reason when Imrahil interrupted his thoughts. 

"Gimli, there are reports from my guards that you have stolen a shield. Is there anything you wish to say about this?" 

"What need have I for a shield?" Gimli responded, still studying the crossbeams overhead. "I would ask the elf." 

Imrahil cocked his head and sent Legolas a questioning look. Legolas sighed and shook his head. "Would you deny a fellow prince a shield if his life was in danger?" the elf asked. 

Prince Imrahil laughed. "Since we are both princes, then, you are welcome to any shield you wish to take. Royalty must look out for royalty, especially if common folk wish harm upon our kind." 

"Common?" Gimli snorted. "Prince Imrahil, if you think me common then allow me to teach you otherwise." 

The prince of Dol Amroth laughed again. "Perhaps another time," he answered, glancing toward a guard who had just entered the main hall. "I believe our guests have arrived." Imrahil then walked toward his guard and had a quick conversation. Dimly, the others could hear the orders he gave, instructing that the Haradrim delegation was to be let into the courtyard but not into the main hall. Imrahil would come forth in time to introduce them to Aragorn and Eomer. 

For their parts, Aragorn looked alert but relaxed and Eomer looked impatient. The guards of Gondor stood silently at attention, solemn figures of regal bearing and stern upbringing. By contrast, the riders of Rohan mirrored their own king—restless and anxious to about and doing rather than waiting. But with all, there was also a sense of anticipation and wariness. It would not be long before they set out on an adventure from which some might never return. 

"And so begins the real journey," Legolas murmured, resting a hand on the reassuring haft of his long, white knife that hung from his belt. 

"So long as you are prepared, I am prepared," Gimli said. "Together, we will journey into this hostile land and together we will emerge victorious." 

For some reason, Legolas shivered at those words, and Gimli felt a touch of cold dread clutch at his heart. Something waited for them in the desert. He couldn’t say what, and he couldn’t explain where his feelings came from, but he knew that danger lurked ahead. Still, with Legolas, Aragorn, and Eomer for company, what could possibly go wrong? 

_Famous last words_ , Gimli thought bitterly. 

* * * *

Silentl as a shadow, Dashnir waited patiently with the other delegates of the Haradrim. They stood together in the courtyard of Prince Imrahil, ready to meet the King Elessar of Gondor and his entourage. There were rumors among the other tribal leaders that another king, King Eomer of Rohan, was accompanying King Elessar, and Dashnir was curious to meet with him as well. He had been in the north several times before and knew Rohan to be a place of vast fields and the swiftest horses known to man, but he had never met any of the Rohirrim. He had seen their horses outside, though, and was impressed with their pride and strength, attributes that could easily be discerned from afar. 

"Why do they tarry?" someone whispered behind him in the common language of Harad. Dashnir recognized the voice as belonging to Fastahn, a member of the Soltari tribe’s advisory council. For the life of him, Dashnir couldn’t understand how Soltari could justify sending someone who was not a member of the governing council. They were not here to negotiate trade settlements with local farmers but to escort two powerful kings into the Harad desert to the Gathering, something that had never been done before and would probably never be done again. Dashnir himself was second only to the tribal head in the Khurintu tribe, and as such he held great renown among the Haradrim and was an appropriate selection for this delegation. 

"Perhaps they wish to observe us," someone else answered Fastahn. That voice belonged to Meret, the tribal head of Baki. The Baki was a rather obscure tribe, but they possessed lands with great mineral wealth and so they were also asked by the chiefs of the Gathering to send a delegate on this mission. Dashnir wondered at the wisdom of sending the tribal head, though. The Haradrim did not want to give the impression that they were bowing to the kings of Gondor and Rohan. They merely wanted to give the impression that they honored their presence. Thankfully, Meret was the only tribal head in the delegation, and as a member of a weaker tribe, he had relatively little power within Harad. It should not prove to be much of a concern. 

A murmur now rose from those closest to the main hall, and Dashnir looked to see that doors to that hall had opened. Forth came Prince Imrahil, who was familiar to many of Harad’s northern tribes, the Khurintu tribe being one of these. Dashnir had met with the prince before and knew him to be a fair man as well as a very perceptive one. He was not an easy leader to fool, and if any of the Harad delegation had secret agendas, they would have to work hard at hiding them from this man. 

Then Dashnir turned his eyes from the prince of Dol Amroth and received a mild shock. Behind Imrahil walked two men, one slightly ahead of the other, and even from afar he could see that they were hardy warriors and strong leaders, men that any soldier would gladly follow into battle and willingly die for. The one further back carried a silver helm and upon his breast was the emblem of a running horse. His golden hair was caught up in a short braid that went down his back and he walked proudly with all the grace and bearing of one used to being obeyed. He was relatively young, but his glance was keen and shrewd as he surveyed the delegates that waited for them. Surely this was King Eomer of the Rohirrim. His stance and his manner suggested one used to riding, and the position of his right arm at his side gave evidence to the fact that he often wielded sword or lance. Indeed, a long sword was strapped to his side and even now, his hand strayed to it as though he anticipated some sort of threat. He would have to be watched. Dashnir perceived that he had a quick temper to go with his youth. 

But it was the other man, the man who walked slightly before King Eomer, who quickly captured Dashnir’s undivided attention. His hair was dark as were his eyes, and when they flickered over the Harad delegation, Dashnir felt a wave sweep over him and leave him weakened in its wake. It was as though everything he had ever planned and everything he had ever desired were made known to this man, and he had to fight back the urge to turn away. Here was one who possessed great power and was schooled in its use. His black raiment bore the emblem of a white tree, and at his side hung an elegant scabbard. His hand rested on the hilt of a much-used sword, and it seemed that energy and force resonated from this blade. There was no doubt in Dashnir’s mind that this was Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor. The strength and majesty of his ancestors walked with him, his glance had the power to crumple his enemies, and the spark of wisdom flared brightly in his eyes. Indeed, this was a man to be worshipped. 

"Delegates of Harad!" 

Dashnir tore his eyes away from Aragorn and focused his attention on Prince Imrahil. The prince was addressing them and was about to make introductions. Dashnir rapidly tried to collect what was left of his composure. It would not do for him to appear weak before such renowned men. 

"I present to you the king of the western lands, the heir of Elendil and Isildur, and the bearer of Anduril, Narsil reforged. Behold the King Elessar of Gondor. And with him I give you the king of the Rohirrim, horse lords of great renown. Behold King Eomer of Rohan. My lieges, may I present to you the delegation sent from Harad who are to escort you to Haradhur. This is Mohart of the Gartabo tribe, and he is their appointed leader." 

Dashnir bristled slightly at this. It was true enough, but Dashnir couldn’t help but think that Khurintu and not Gartabo should have led this escort. Was not Khurintu the greatest warrior tribe and the most skilled in the arts of combat? Gartabo was merely fortunate enough to control an area with three hidden lakes and seven good wells, making them an economic and agricultural power. They were not the true representatives of Harad. They were settlers and farmers, not raiders or warriors. 

"My greetings to you, Mohart." Aragorn was speaking now and Dashnir trembled at the sound of his voice. There was hidden power there and great strength. If that man asked for the moon, Dashnir could easily envision half of Middle Earth rising up to fetch it for him. 

"And my greetings to you, King Elessar," Mohart replied slowly, using the Westron speech with some difficulty. "Allow me to introduce those who accompany me and who will accompany you for the next week." As Mohart proceeded with the introductions, a rather bland formality, Dashnir began examining the men who traveled with Aragorn and Eomer. It was easy enough to identify who belonged to which kingdom. The men of Gondor were dark haired and grim of face, solemn and watchful as they endured the tedious introductions. The men of Rohan were different in manner, and though they were no less disciplined than the soldiers of Gondor, there was an impatience d of restlessness on their part that did not extend to Aragorn’s guard. Light of face and hair they were, and all bore either a spear or a sword. 

Dashnir continued to scan those whom he would be escorting, making a note of some in particular who seemed to be of interest, and eventually came to two figures standing directly behind Aragorn and Eomer. He had not seen them before as the stance of the kings had concealed them from view, but when Aragorn moved forward to speak with Mohart and by so doing revealed their presence, Dashnir was barely able to keep back a gasp. The strange creatures—there seemed no better word for them—looked over the Harad delegation with the wary scrutiny of tried warriors. One was fair beyond the measure of man, his golden tresses falling upon his shoulders and his bright gray eyes boring holes into all he surveyed. A bow and quiver were strapped to his back and a long, white knife hung from his belt. A light seemed to radiate from him, and Dashnir had the overwhelming feeling that this being was not of Middle Earth. 

Then there was his companion. Gruff and short, his head barely reaching the other’s elbow, he sported a heavy shirt of mail and a powerful battleaxe. His face was partially obscured by a thick beard that hung down to the middle of his broad chest. He was a stocky mass of hardened muscle, hinting at great strength and endurance. His deep-set eyes roamed the Harad delegation and seemed to capture every detail in exactness. 

Dashnir started when he heard his name being spoken and belatedly realized that Mohart was introducing him. He smiled grimly upon noting that he had been the last delegate Mohart named and quietly vowed that this slight to the Khurintu tribe would be remedied in the near future. He bowed his head slightly toward Aragorn and Eomer, making certain that he showed no disrespect but also that they knew he was not their subject and he owed them no allegiance. Once more he felt a wash of energy as Aragorn examined him, and he caught his breath when the king turned away, for he felt weary as though he had just fought a great battle. 

"I fear that full introductions of our escort would weary your patient ears," Aragorn said. "But there are some here I would have you know. This is Imhran, captain of my guard, and Arhelm, the captain of Rohan’s guard. Also, two representatives of Races who live within our kingdoms have elected to join us. This is Legolas the elf, son of King Thraunduil who rules in Greenwood the Great. And here is Gimli the dwarf, son of Gloin from the Lonely Mountain where can be found many precious metals and gems." 

_An elf and a dwarf!?_ Dashnir had heard tales of such beings, but he had never before met one. He wondered just how many of the legends were true and vowed to keep an especially close watch on these two creatures. Of old, his ancestors had dealings with the elves, but that was thousands of years ago before the fall of the great city when their dark arts were revealed. Such tales were myths of a younger day, and little heed was given to them now. In fact, were it not for the rumors that claimed Prince Imrahil possessed elven blood, it is doubtful that many of the Haradrim would give any credence to the tales of elves and dwarves. Of course, Dashnir and those like him knew better, but the truth of their ancestry was not common knowledge in Harad. And though the time was coming when they would once more be able to openly proclaim their great heritage, now was still a time of secrecy. 

"Are you and those with you ready to travel?" Aragorn was asking Mohart. "For I would wish to reach Lake Supt ere sunrise." 

Dashnir felt his surprise and grudging respect for this man rise again. Not only did Aragorn know of at least one of the hidden lakes they would pass on their way to Haradhur but he also knew its name. It occurred to him that this king had probably journeyed in Harad before. He recalled seeing baggage stowed on many of the horses, and at the time he had nodded at the wisdom shown. There had been no more than was needed and no less than was required. He had thought that perhaps Prince Imrahil had aided in the packing, but he now reconsidered that earlier assumption. 

"We are of Harad’s finest tribes," Mohart said proudly. Dashnir held back a derisive sneer at this, thinking of the Gartabo and Baki tribes. "We are forever prepared to ride. We wait only for you and such preparations as still need completion." 

"Then let us feast and then be on our way," Aragorn said. "For we have no need to tarry here. Lead on into the main hall and we shall follow." 

With the uncomfortable feeling that he had just been dismissed, Dashnir started forward with the other tribal representatives and wondered at the fact that Aragorn had just commanded them and they had just unquestioningly and instantly obeyed. If nothing else, the next two weeks should prove enlightening for everyone. Glancing back, he saw that the guards of Rohan and Gondor were following them. No, not following. It seemed as though they were driving the delegates of Harad. The Haradrim were not leading these men. They were, instead, being watched and it was easier to watch a foe before you than a foe behind you. 

Shaking his head at this shrewd subtlety obviously put into play by Aragorn, Dashnir searched for the king of Gondor and found him consulting with Prince Imrahil and King Eomer. His eyes strayed across the Harad delegates and Dashnir read Aragorn’s suspicion in his furrowed brow and dark glance. _Had I been born in his country, I would follow this king_ , Dashnir decided. _He trusts nothing at face value, knows the customs of his neighbors, and has an ingrained ability to command._

Almost as though sensing his thoughts, Aragorn suddenly looked directly at Dashnir. His unblinking eyes paused for only a moment, but a moment was enough. Dashnir drew his desert scarves up around his face and turned away, knowing it was a defeat of sorts but respecting this northern king enough to grant him the victory. Besides, there would be many opportunities in Harad to repay Aragorn in kind. It was only a matter of time. 

* * * *

"What think you, Aragorn?" Eomer asked, his voice low and hushed. 

"I think that Prince Imrahil is right. There are some in this delegation that bear great secrets and great evil. But like the prince, I cannot uncover the source," Aragorn answered, watching the delegates closely as they disappeared into the main hall. 

"Do you think my choice of victim is a good one?" Imrahil wondered. "There is still time to change our plans if you wish it." 

Aragorn shook his head thoughtfully. "No, I believe you have chosen rightly. Something dark is in his heart. It may be nothing to do with us, but it is an evil darkness that might turn against any perceived foe. But you must take care in tending to him here. He may realize what has been done and seek retribution." 

"It will be as you counsel," the prince promised. "Come. Let us follow them inside." 

Gimli, who had been watching this exchange from his position near the door of the main hall, nudged Legolas. "They spoke of it again. Could you hear what they said?" He waited for the elf to explain that even though his ears were far superior to a dwarf’s, the discussion had not been quiet and it was unthinkable that Gimli had heard nothing. But instead, Legolas remained silent. Casting a curious glance up at his friend, the dwarf groaned. "Legolas!" 

Shaken somewhat and almost surprised into jumping, Legolas tore his eyes from the gulls that circled overhead and looked at his companion. "What?" 

"You were doing it again," Gimli said. 

"What do you mean by…oh." The elf grimaced and shook his head. "My apologies. I had hoped to last until the meal at least." 

"You were close," the dwarf allowed. "But you need practice." 

"Practice," Legolas murmured. "I fear I shall endure much practice ere I am ever satisfied." 

Deciding a shift in topics and scenery would be a wise idea, Gimli took Legolas by the arm and turned him toward the main hall. "You did not eat much this morning," he said, pulling the unresisting elf forward. "And you have need of nourishment before our journey begins. Once we leave Dol Amroth, we are on soldier’s rations." 

"I have heard only you, Pippin, and Sam complain of soldier’s rations," Legolas reminded him, extracting his arm from Gimli’s grasp but continuing to follow the dwarf. 

"That is because we three seem to be the only sane companions you travel with," Gimli returned. "All else are too mad to worry about important things such as food." 

"Is it madness to take thought for the day’s journey, the direction of the march, or possible enemies one might encounter on the road?" Legolas questioned. 

"It is if those thoughts do not include food," the dwarf stated firmly. 

"I think you have been too exposed to hobbits." 

By now, the two had entered the main hall and were making their way down long rows of tables past the guards of Gondor and Rohan toward the head where they would be seated at Aragorn’s side. Aragorn himself was just now walking in with Eomer and Prince Imrahil in tow. Candles cast dancing light about the hall and the sweet aroma of various dishes drifted in from the kitchen attached to the back of the main hall. 

All save the Haradrim rose as Aragorn, Imrahil, and Eomer moved to their appointed chairs at the head of the center table. When the kings of Gondor and Rohan sat, the remainder of the room did likewise, and servants began pouring in, bearing plates stacked high with food. Drinks were served as appetizers were dished out, and Imrahil raised his glass to Aragorn. "A good journey to you, King Elessar," he said, his musical tenor filling the hall. "And a good journey to those who travel with you in good faith." 

The toast was echoed up and down the tables as glasses were raised. Aragorn nodded and raised his glass in return. Then all drank, but Gimli, who was keeping a sharp eye on Imrahil, Eomer, and Aragorn, noted that their eyes were now straying to the middle of the main table where the delegation from Harad was seated. He elbowed Legolas and almost made the elf choke on his wine. 

"Can you see anything down there?" he hissed when Legolas turned an irritated look on the dwarf. 

"Can I see anything down where?" the elf asked, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

"Among the Haradrim. Aragorn is keeping an especially close watch on them and I feel as though he is waiting for something to happen." 

Legolas frowned but obediently cast his keen eyes down the table. "I see nothing unusual," he reported after a cursory inspection. 

"Nothing whatsoever?" the dwarf pressed. "Is the color of their food off, or their mannerisms? Are you certain there is nothing to be seen?" 

With a sigh, Legolas once again looked down the table, this time taking more time and going over what he saw in greater detail. "They appear to be enjoying their wine, which is quite good, I might add." 

"Anything else?" Gimli asked, not about to be deterred. 

"They are enjoying the meat, too." 

"Legolas!" 

"Gimli, I assure you that there is nothing to be seen," Legolas said, wishing to turn back to his own meal. "All appears normal and…" he suddenly trailed off and slid his chair back slightly. "No, all is not normal," he whispered, his eyes narrowing. Before Gimli could question him, he had turned to Aragorn. "My liege, I think one of the Haradrim is ill." 

Aragorn glanced down the table. "Which one?" 

"It is—" 

But before Legolas could utter his name, Mohart surged to his feet, clutching at his throat with one hand while the other hand pressed into his gut. He moaned, his eyes rolled back, and he toppled to the floor. 

Pandemonium broke loose, Aragorn shot Imrahil an incriminating look to which Imrahil shrugged in complete confusion, and then all rushed to Mohart’s side. Dashnir, the representative from the Khurintu tribe, was kneeling at his side and checking his vital signs. "He has passed out," Dashnir reported when Aragorn pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers. "His temperature is high but I know not what could have caused this sudden illness." 

"Guards!" Imrahil summoned. "Call members of my personal staff and have them prepare a sick room. And find the head healer. Instruct him to prepare for a patient." 

The prince’s guard scattered to do his bidding. The soldiers of Rohan and Gondor backed up at Aragorn’s command, giving the Haradrim more room. Aragorn himself was now inspecting the falling delegate leader and concluding that the potion concocted by Imrahil had missed its intended target. "His pulse is strong," Aragorn said at length with yet another meaningful glance at the prince of Dol Amroth behind him. "He may regain consciousness soon, but judging from the way he clutches his stomach, I do not think he will wish to travel tonight." 

Dashnir was quiet for a moment at this pronouncement and then looked at the other seven men from Harad. "We will go on without him," he said. Aragorn had the distinct impression that Dashnir felt something was amiss, but he could not be certain. "Prince Imrahil," Khurintu’s delegate continued, "would it be possible for you to see to Mohart while we travel? He knows the way well and could easily follow when he recovers, but I do not wish to delay our travel. We will be hard pressed to reach Haradhur on time as it is." 

"We will see that he regains his health," Imrahil promised. "Have no fear of that." 

Dashnir nodded. "My thanks. He may be upset with you, but I think this will be best for him." 

"And I also," Aragorn said, moving aside so that others could come forward and lift Mohart onto a hastily constructed cot. "Now let us return to our meals. We should leave within the hour, and I would not have us ride on empty stomachs." 

"What happened?" Eomer hissed to Imrahil as they moved away from the Haradrim. "Mohart was supposed to be our ally, or did you find out otherwise?" 

"I know no more than you do," Imrahil whispered back. "I myself placed the potion in the drink and I watched as the cup was placed before the correct man. But if you look at the places now, the cup is before Mohart. Sometime between serving it and drinking it, it was moved." 

"You are certain it was placed correctly?" Aragorn asked. 

"I would stake my life on it," Imrahil vowed. 

"You may have staked our lives on it," Eomer warned. 

"Eomer!" Aragorn hissed. "Enough. If Imrahil claims the potion was put before the intended victim, I believe him. Someone must have moved it, and I do not believe it is coincidence that it made its way before our surest ally." 

"You think someone moved it on purpose?" Imrahil asked. "But how can that be? The potion was odorless, tasteless, and colorless. It would have been impossible to sense." 

"Unless the victim had senses other than sight, taste, and smell," Aragorn mused, glancing toward the Haradrim who were now resuming their meal. For some reason, the hall seemed darker and the shadows cast by candlelight were deeper. "We must be doubly on guard now, Eomer," the king of Gondor said after a moment’s pause. I think evil intentions are not all there is to fear." 

A little way behind the three rulers, Legolas shuddered. His sharp ears had heard the entire conversation, though it was not in his nature to intentionally eavesdrop, and he sensed a chill he had always before associated with the dark sorcery of Dol Goldur. It was more remote and nowhere near as powerful, but it was there. He had thought he felt it before but had attributed it to his befuddled senses that were dazed by the call of the sea. Now, he knew he had been right. And he did not like to think of what this meant for their journey. Legolas unconsciously shuddered again. For all the promises of a blazing, scorching sun, Harad was looking darker and darker with each passing moment. 


	5. The Eve of the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

His back to the rest of the company, Legolas watched the moon weave a glowing path across the waves as they swirled and rolled, dancing an endless dance to an ageless song. With very little effort, the elf could imagine them lapping against the sides of a gray ship, teasing it into deeper waters and sending it onward to a land without death. The sea called to him and his heart leaped to respond. It filled his mind, captured his soul, and whispered forgotten words in his ear. The rest of the world dimmed and paled in contrast to its vastness. Middle Earth was as a tiny grain of sand, caught helplessly in the ocean that controlled and mastered all. Nothing mattered but the sea. It was everything. It was starlight and moonlight. It was forests and deserts. It was life and death. In the end, the eternal sea was all that stood against time. If he could but catch a tiny piece of its infinite glory, Legolas felt that his existence would be complete. _Come_ , it seemed to whisper. _Come and partake._

A shadow momentarily blocked the splendor and grandeur of the ocean and Legolas moved to the side, feeling a sting of irritation but just as quickly losing that feeling to the roaring surf. The sea took in all emotions, great and small. They were pounded into the rocks until all that remained was a blissful numbness. Feelings were nothing to the sea. It cared not for the plans or schemes of men. It existed only as it had always existed. It was a bridge between two worlds, yet neither world could claim it as its own. All lay helpless before its power, and before all it reared in majesty and might. Rush after rush of wave slammed into the rocky beach, wearing away at the land and exulting in its supreme mastery. For it was the master. The bold might cross it, the brave might dare it, and the foolish might fight it, but in the end, it was the sea that made all decisions.

The shadow came again, and again Legolas moved to step aside. But this time, something prevented him. Some hold other than the sea gripped his body and he stood completely still for a moment, wondering what other force in the world would dare oppose the ocean that claimed his attention to the exclusion of all else. Then this new hold intensified and a shiver of pain coursed through his body. But pain should be consumed by the sea. Why would he be feeling it? He had given himself to the ocean, allowed it to enfold his mind in wave after wave of swirling blue. All pain should be swallowed, devoured, washed away.

Voices now intruded, different from the sea. In a way, they were louder than the endless calling of the waves, and since he could no longer see the great ocean, they were also more compelling. They were taking him away from his sanctuary. They were denying him the infinite waters that eased all weariness and laid to rest all fears. A rush of anger surged through the elf, as powerful as the surf that forever pounded the stubborn shore. He blinked his eyes and focused on the shadow before him, intent on discovering its secrets and banishing it from his mind. But the moment he did so, the shadow resolved itself into a concerned face.

"Legolas?"

Aragorn’s hesitant whisper brought the elf firmly back into reality and the man’s already paralyzing, painful grip on his friend’s shoulders tightened as Legolas swayed, suffering from the stress of transfer from one world to another. The elf locked his knees and closed his eyes, waiting impatiently for a sense of equilibrium to return. When at last he could stand on his own, Aragorn relaxed his hold though he did not release the elf.

"You have been worrying us, my friend," Aragorn said quietly. "Gimli could not rouse you and took me aside just before I was to give the order to ride."

Legolas wondered what had happened to his power of speech, for it seemed he could not answer Aragorn. He stood there as one in shock, staring mutely and blinking dumbly.

"Legolas?" The concern was back in Aragorn’s voice and his dark eyes searched the elf’s bright gray eyes. "Legolas, can you answer me?"

"Legolas?"

That was Gimli’s voice, and the elf belatedly realized that the dwarf had been standing at his elbow for the entire time but that he was only now aware of it. With a shake of his head, Legolas glanced at Gimli and tried desperately to form some kind of coherent thought.

"Dashnir!"

Eomer’s warning hiss from behind Legolas caused Aragorn’s eyes to narrow, and Gondor’s king worked harder on trying to break through the elf’s trance. "Focus, my friend," he whispered hurriedly. "You must focus or we lose the edge. Do you understand me? Can you at least nod?"

Closing his eyes, Legolas nodded. Aragorn’s hands squeezed his shoulders briefly and then he was released. For a moment, the elf felt lost and adrift. Then someone clamped onto his forearm and turned him resolutely away from the rushing of the waves. "This way," Gimli growled softly, watching Dashnir closely. It would not do for Legolas to show such an obvious weakness, for it would most certainly be exploited in some way. "Try to look more alert if that is possible. Faensul is waiting and you only need mount him. He will follow Aragorn’s Arnor and Eomer’s Shade when we set off."

__

Say something! Legolas screamed at himself. He felt helpless and lost, unable to speak or utter thoughts aloud. The sea seemed to have stolen his voice and refused to return it. It was coming very close to stealing his soul.

"You were doing well for a while, my friend," Gimli continued. It sounded as though he spoke only to hear the sound of his voice. He probably thought Legolas was lost in the sea again and only moving because of his hold on the elf’s arm. "I thought we would set off in good time, but I forgot to watch you and when I glanced behind to speak, you were no longer there," the dwarf was saying. "We led Faensul from his stall, and you seemed aware enough then, but I should have realized what was happening. You had that look, yet my hopes were too high to see it for what it was. I am sorry, Legolas. I have failed you in this, for I promised to be your constant companion until we were further from the sea. It seems I have not done my duty, and now you have no knowledge of your surroundings. Eomer suggested leaving you here, but Aragorn was against that. He seemed to think that the longer you stayed, the harder it would be for us to bring you back. I agreed with him then, and I agree with him even more now. Even if you do not come with us into Harad, we must at least send you home where there are things to occupy your mind."

"I will not leave you," Legolas said quietly, recovering the use of his voice. The elf felt Gimli jump in surprise through the hold on his arm. "In Ithilien or in the desert, the problem is the same. Here, though, I can see the object of my desire. Your pardon, please, Gimli. I did not mean to cause you worry."

The dwarf glanced around, noticed they were relatively alone, released the elf, and turned on him. His eyes flashed with barely concealed anger and he set his fists on his hips, beard bristling as he jerked his chin at his friend. "What did you think you were doing?" he demanded, keeping his voice low for fear of being overheard by the Haradrim. "You must know how dangerous that is. And to make things worse, we have an appearance to maintain before these delegates."

"I am aware of that," Legolas sighed. "But I do not know what happened. I remember leaving the castle but after that…" The elf trailed off with a small shrug. "I am sorry. I wish I could have better kept my mind and my attention where it belonged."

"Aragorn almost gave the order to ride," Gimli said sternly. "Did you know that? And if he had, what would they have thought at your blatant dismissal of his authority?"

"What of it, Gimli?" Legolas asked, weariness filling his voice. "Once caught, there was naught I could do. I did not even know where I stood until a few moments ago. I apologize again, but in truth, I fear I have little control over my actions at the present."

"Then we shall have to remedy that," Gimli growled, turning away and stalking toward Faensul. Behind him, Legolas smiled slightly and whistled. Faensul jerked his head toward the elf, shook his head, and trotted over. The large, white head came down and butted itself against the elf’s chest. Legolas laughed quietly and stroked the silky mane, watching Gimli out of the corner of his eye as the dwarf scowled, turned around, and stalked back to the elf.

"Is there something the matter?" Legolas asked innocently.

"Nothing unless it be an elf who keeps secrets from his friends," Gimli harrumphed. He glared at Faensul who favored him with a snort and a stomp of his right foreleg. "You could have done that yesterday evening," the dwarf suddenly said.

"Pardon?" Legolas asked, moving aside so that he could aid Gimli in mounting.

"You wandered away, giving the excuse that you were looking for Faensul when a mere whistle would have brought him to your side. Is that not so?" the dwarf asked, jumping into the air as the elf pushed him onto the stallion’s back.

Legolas sighed and grimaced as he sprang onto the horse before Gimli. "I had need of thought," he said at length, directing Faensul toward the head of the company where Aragorn and Eomer were watching.

"You could have said so."

"Would you have believed me?"

"No," Gimli snorted. "And I do not believe you now. Did you take thought or did you simply wander?"

"You know me too well, son of Gloin," Legolas murmured. "In truth, I wandered. I did not find Faensul. He found me. Were it not for him, you might have been forced to leave me on the plain between Gondor and Dol Amroth." Legolas pulled Faensul to a stop on Aragorn’s left and tried to ignore the searching glances of both Eomer and Aragorn. "Is all in readiness?" he asked.

"All has been in readiness for some time," Aragorn said slowly, watching Legolas closely to judge his reaction. "Eomer’s men have stalled by rearranging the baggage on the rider-less horses, but I fear your actions have been observed by some of the Haradrim."

"How long shall we be nigh unto the sea?" Gimli asked before Legolas could respond to this.

"Two days, I fear," Isildur’s heir responded. "We must retrace some of our steps through Lebennin and Belfalas, but then we will turn more northward. At the end of the third night, we will cross Anduin at Pelargir and then follow the traditional Harad road. It leads away from the sea and after four more days, we shall reach Haradhur."

"Then what was the business of reaching a lake before sunrise?" Gimli demanded.

"I spoke of Lake Supt," Aragorn said. "And my meaning was that we should reach Lake Supt ere sunrise of the fourth night. The Haradrim do not measure the traveling time in lands with water. To them, a week or a month journeying through fair Lebennin would be the same. When they travel, they measure time by the distance between lakes and wells, and that distance becomes a day. From Pelargir to Lake Supt is a hard day’s ride, for a mile or so after leaving Anduin, there is no more water."

"I fear that the more I learn of these people, the less I understand them," Eomer murmured.

"How shall the riding be ordered?" Legolas asked, attempting to look as though the conversation commanded his full attention. In truth, the crash of the waves against the shore was beginning to grow loud again.

"We four shall ride at the head of the Haradrim," Aragorn said. "The Rohirrim shall form a left flank behind the delegates and my guard shall form a right flank."

"They will be surrounded," Eomer summarized. "But we show them no disrespect by placing ourselves in their midst."

"And at their mercy," Gimli warned.

"True enough," Aragorn allowed. "And we must all be on our guard." He said this last bit with a hard look at Legolas. The elf glanced away, unwilling to meet his eyes. Aragorn sighed. "Legolas, I don’t claim to fully understand your—"

"Don’t." The elf’s voice was harsh and clipped and Gimli stiffened to hear it. Perhaps because of the dwarf’s reaction, Legolas softened his tone as he continued, but it was still firm and uncompromising. "I have already told Gimli that I neither desire nor need your pity. Leave it be." Seeing the look on Aragorn’s face, Legolas offered the barest of smiles and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Please, my liege."

Gondor’s king returned the smile and placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder. "Remember that we are your friends, Legolas," he said. "If ever you have a need, we will be there." Then spurring his horse forward, he cast his eyes back to the towering structure of Dol Amroth. He raised his hand, and high on the turrets, the figure or Prince Imrahil returned the gesture. A horn sounded in farewell and at that note, Aragorn shouted aloud. Rohan and Gondor surged forward, driving the startled Haradrim before them. And so they passed into the night, racing along the coast of the sea and navigating by moonlight in a world of shadows.

* * * *

Dashnir had never failed to be amazed by the amount of water the northern lands possessed. More amazing still was the fact that it all seemed to be taken for granted. Almost three weeks ago, though it was difficult to measure time when the distances between places of water were so short, he had crossed the Anduin River on the barges manned by the men of Pelargir. He had been astonished then, and he was astonished now. There were no methods for saving the water. Men wandered about the shores of the river dripping wet, taking no means to preserve the water that clung to their clothes. Had they behaved so in Harad, most of the tribes would have killed them. But here, it was completely acceptable. The horses were allowed to drink their fill, some of the men kicked and splashed water at one another, and the river was allowed to flow unchecked, eventually spilling out into the vastness of the salty sea.

Their third night on the road was coming to an end, and Aragorn was arranging barges so that they might cross Anduin. It had been an interesting three nights, if nothing else, and Dashnir was still of several minds concerning the individuals they escorted. Some of his first impressions had been right. The men of Gondor were far more serious than the men of Rohan. They had a solemn countenance and though they would smile and jest, there was an underlying feel of nobility and honor that could not be forsaken even in times of ease. The Rohirrim, by contrast, were serious at need, but they laughed and talked often, even while riding. They were warriors, but they were also light of heart, taking life as it was dealt and trusting that fate would lead them down the paths they were meant to follow. The men of Rohan were also clearly the better horsemen. And their horses were far superior to any Dashnir had ever seen. The Rohirrim were constantly reining them in so that they would not pass the rest of the company.

But for specific individuals, Dashnir still had great uncertainty. Eomer, in particular, was a great puzzle. He joined with his men in merriment and singing, but he also bore the mantle of a king and sometimes would take on the solemnity of Gondor. He was very young to be the leader of a nation and it showed somewhat in his mannerisms, but his eyes were keen and he commanded his men well with a curious mixture of authority and camaraderie. There was nothing his men wouldn’t do for him or he for them. He was a seasoned warrior of many campaigns and he knew the value of caution, yet at times he seemed too bold or too rash. He chafed under Aragorn’s authority at the same time he worshiped it. And he was suspicious. This Dashnir found particularly interesting because his initial impression of Eomer suggested that he was a man who easily gave his trust to another. That feeling had not changed, but Eomer had yet to indicate that he had any sort of trust in the Haradrim.

And then there was Aragorn. Dashnir felt he had a good idea of King Elessar’s personality, but he needed more. The man was complex and Dashnir had barely scratched the surface. He was cunning and wise, strong and capable, learned and intelligent, and beneath it all was a sea of great power that he could unleash in a single glance that left one trembling in fear. His men were completely and totally loyal to him, obeying every wish and every whim unquestioningly. Even Dashnir could feel the pull of this man’s charisma. His flashing eyes were dark pools containing a wealth of knowledge, his soft voice had the ability to silence all surrounding conversation, and his bearing was nothing less than that of a venerable king who has ruled well for many years and will continue to do so. He was not a young man, but neither was he old. At times he seemed ageless, and at these times was he most to be feared for it seemed his hidden power swelled just beneath the surface, threatening to break forth and strike down his enemies with a great wrath.

Dashnir sighed. Never in his life had he felt so short of information. He was a perceptive man and a descendent of an ancient lineage that had always served him well. Always had he been able to interpret the moods of the men around them with exactness, knowing their strengths and weaknesses and having also the knowledge needed to exploit those weaknesses. But now he floundered, feeling as though he walked on the edge of a dream. The information he needed hovered just beyond his reach, yet the harder he strove to get at it, the further away it drifted.

The sound of sharp splashes caught his attention and he turned his head as a large white horse thundered past. That would be Faensul, Legolas’s mount. As proud, tall, and fleet of foot as Eomer’s own Shade, he was a magnificent, willful creature who wandered free of saddle and harness. No man could touch him and he seemed to consider himself above all around him, but at the command of Legolas, he became submissive and obedient. At the moment, though, Dashnir could not see the elf and Faensul was thoroughly enjoying himself as he frolicked and leaped in the water.

"Truly a beautiful animal," a voice said just behind Dashnir.

With a sharp gasp, Dashnir turned and reached for the short blade that hung beneath his flowing robes. He relaxed slightly when he saw King Eomer standing behind him, but his guard went up as well. Aragorn had spoken with Dashnir occasionally, but Eomer had yet to seek him out for conversation. "Truly it is," he answered, folding his arms across his chest.

"Elven horses are the only known rivals to the _Mearas_ , and it thrills me to see one so high-spirited," Eomer continued as though musing to himself. "Almost I am reminded of Shadowfax."

Dashnir rapidly searched his mind for a reference to the term _Mearas_ but found nothing. He debated about asking for an explanation, weighing the potential risk of being seen as weak versus the chance at drawing Eomer into further conversation and gaining a friend of sorts. He eventually decided to hazard it. "I am afraid I am not familiar with the word _Mearas_. Could you expound upon that?"

"Certainly," Eomer said, nodding his head slightly though his eyes continued to follow Faensul’s antics. "The _Mearas_ are the greatest of the free horses, and they are only bred and born in the green hills of Rohan. My own stallion, Shade, is currently their chief. They are proud horses, and it is said they understand the speech of men. The greatest of the _Mearas_ in recent times was Shadowfax, but alas, he is no more to be found in Middle Earth. Elven horses like Faensul are descended from the same great stallion that sired the _Mearas_. He was Nahar, the first horse to enter the world of Middle Earth. Oromë, the Valar’s huntsman, was his rider, and it is said that in need they could travel as swiftly as the eagles fly."

Dashnir nodded at this information, cataloguing it away and marking it for further analysis. "Stories of your horses have reached the ears of even those in Harad," he said. "But we did not know the history behind such animals."

"Very few still do," Eomer said quietly. He sneaked a peak at Dashnir out of the corner of his eyes as though evaluating the other. "What do you here by the water? The barges are almost set and we shall cross the river soon."

"I came to have a moment of thought," Dashnir answered, marking the other’s youth in the directness of the question. "And also to see the river before we cross it. We have no such things in Harad, as you will soon discover."

"What is your source of water, then?"

Yes, Eomer was young and eager for information, unaware of what advertising his ignorance might mean for his standing with others. Dashnir smiled slightly, feeling he had a better hold on this man now. "Wells, mostly," he said. "There are also some hidden lakes. King Elessar spoke of one the other night. Lake Supt it is called, and it will be the first such lake we come to after entering the desert. We will reach it ere sunrise if we push the horses."

"Sunrise tomorrow, correct?"

Dashnir nodded, remembering that the concepts of travel time was slightly different here in the north where water was in abundance. "And what of yourself, King Eomer? What brings you to the water’s edge?"

"I heard splashing and looked to see what it was," Eomer answered, nodding toward Faensul who was moving farther away from the shore. The water was up around his back now and he seemed to be debating the merits of continuing his journey.

A soft grunt and an expression in a strange tongue caught Dashnir’s attention and he looked to see the dwarf— _Gimli_ , his mind supplied—coming toward them. Here was another puzzle. This short creature had a fiery temper with a fuse to match his height, and he was brash and bold to a fault. But beneath it all, Dashnir could feel a strong sense of honor and a deep loyalty. He was at a loss to explain the dwarf no matter how much he observed him, and with every revelation and insight into his personality came yet another puzzle.

"Do you come from Aragorn, Gimli?" Eomer asked, also noticing the dwarf. "Are there tidings on the progress down the bank?"

"The barges are almost prepared for the first group," Gimli reported, watching Faensul with distaste. "Will we have to ride once we reach the opposite shore?"

"Perhaps a few more miles," Eomer answered. "Why do you ask?"

"I do not wish for a wet seat."

The king of the Rohirrim burst into laughter and looked back out to Faensul. "I had not thought of that. Perhaps you should seek Legolas and have him call the stallion in."

"I do not need the elf to command a horse," Gimli grumped irritably, stalking to the water’s edge. "Faensul!"

Out in the river, the white steed looked back and whinnied, almost as though taunting those who called him. With a deliberation that seemed comically human, he turned his back on the riverbank and started moving further away. Dashnir watched in amazed bemusement, thinking that maybe even the horse should be evaluated as a potential rival.

Musical laughter behind Dashnir startled him, and for the second time that night, he swung around to see who had taken him by surprise. _The elf_ , he observed grimly. _My last and perhaps my most baffling puzzle_.

"Legolas! Call your horse," Gimli ordered.

"He is safe enough out there," the elf answered with another laugh. "I should think you would welcome a chance to be rid of him for all the complaining you do."

"I fear that Gimli does not relish the prospect of a wet seat," Eomer supplied with a small smile.

"Ah." Legolas grinned and stepped forward, putting two fingers to his mouth. A high-pitched whistle came forth, and at its sound, Faensul immediately turned back to the bank and rushed forward, sending water flying as he did so. "King Elessar sends word that the barges are ready," Legolas added as Faensul trotted up onto the bank and gave himself a good shake, thoroughly soaking Gimli in the process.

__

It is not just one, it is the pair, Dashnir decided, watching the dwarf furiously berate the elf for not having better control of his horse. _They are a quandary I cannot even begin to unravel. Different as night and day, they are forever at one another’s throats. And yet they are friends, or so it seems for all the time they spend together. But then, perhaps I am not the only one baffled by this_ , he concluded with a glance at Eomer. The horse lord was also watching the two with a mixture of amusement and confusion, but it was the kind of confusion that comes after one accepts the impossibility of deciphering a situation. Perhaps that was the key to understanding the elf and the dwarf. They had to be accepted rather than analyzed.

"Come," Eomer said, interrupting Legolas who was saying something about dripping cave formations and dwarven beards. "We should not keep Aragorn waiting." And with that, Eomer turned and walked away, heading toward the landing where they would board the barges. With a shake of his head, Dashnir followed, still attempting to unravel four very strange personalities.

* * * *

"He does not like us," Gimli murmured, watching Dashnir’s form disappear into the darkness on the riverbank.

"He does not understand us," Legolas said. "And from there stems his dislike, or so I think."

"He is a man," Gimli snorted. "How could he expect to understand an elf or a dwarf?"

"I do not think he is the sort of man who usually finds himself at a loss for understanding," the elf said slowly, frowning as his keen eyes continued to follow Dashnir’s progress. Faensul nickered behind him and Legolas unconsciously placed a hand behind the horse’s ears, stroking gently. "In some ways, he resembles Aragorn. I feel it in his glance. He has a perception that most men do not, but he is still blind to us, and that unsettles him."

"Well, he unsettles me," Gimli said with a shiver. "I like not his looks, nor do I like his companions. These Haradrim, they are dour men who smile at nothing and make little conversation."

"What would you have them say to you?"

The dwarf scowled and started moving forward, sensing more than seeing Legolas as he moved forward with him. "I do not desire any particulars," Gimli said at length. "But must every answer to a question be terse and angry?"

"Perhaps that is the way of things in their country," Legolas said, his eyes narrowing as he watched Dashnir step aside and begin a hushed conversation with Garat, a member of the Warra tribe. Khurintu, Dashnir’s tribe, and Warra were both warlike tribes, or so Aragorn had told them the previous day, and they had little patience for negotiations or compromises. To them, strength and force were to be respected above other qualities, and diplomatic talks mattered little to them. Legolas wondered what they spoke of, but their hushed conversation was too low for even the elf’s sharp hearing to make out. He caught only snatches of talk, and then only enough to realize they were speaking in their own tongue. He might have been able to catch the general feel of the conversation had he been able to hear it better, but as it was, he could not.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?"

Gimli sighed. "Nothing."

The elf raised an eyebrow and looked down at the dwarf. "Your voice says otherwise."

"I wondered if you might be thinking of something you ought not to think about," the dwarf attempted to explain.

Legolas laughed quietly and shook his head. "I fear, my friend, that the sea is a constant for me. But it is not overpowering as it was yesterday or the day before. We draw further from it now, and I am better able to retain my concentration."

"Do you speak truly when you say it is a constant?" Gimli wondered.

The elf nodded sadly. "It is not always in my thoughts, but it is forever in my heart. It is…a longing. At times it is more distant, but it is forever there, tainting whatever I might be feeling. And when I sleep…" The elf trailed off and looked away south, trying to decide how to put his thoughts into words. "When I sleep it is foremost in my dreams. It calls me, Gimli. I know not how else to explain it. It is a distant voice that I hear. I can ignore it for a while, but as time moves forward, it grows louder. And when we are nigh unto the sea, the voice is as a deafening shout."

"I do not understand this longing, as you put it," Gimli said, watching the elf through concerned eyes. "But if there is any way for me to help, I am more than willing. You have but to ask."

"I know it and I am grateful," Legolas assured his friend. "Have no concern for me, Gimli. The elven people have always been touched by sadness of some kind, and always we have endured. It is nothing. Come. I would travel on the first barge with Aragorn." And without waiting for a response or acknowledgement from the dwarf, Legolas hurried forward. Faensul snorted and picked up his pace, following in the elf’s footsteps. Gimli was left to follow as best he could, all the while mumbling derisively about long-legged elves and their ignorance of other’s shortcomings.

* * * *

With all the thoroughness of a fine craftsman, Eomer checked and rechecked the ropes on the barges. Aragorn waited patiently, knowing that Eomer would never consent to cross until he had assured himself that his horses would be safe. Holding the reins of his own horse Arnor as well as Eomer’s horse Shade, Aragorn glanced about and tried to fix in his mind the position of those around him.

The Rohirrim were grouped together, which was not unusual, and they were singing softly. Aragorn began translating the song and noted it was a song of Eorl, as many of their songs were. It was a rather bittersweet melody but a beautiful one nonetheless, and the powerful voices of the Rohirrim could give the elves a challenge as far as harmonizing went.

As for Aragorn’s own men, they were more spread out and some of them were talking with members of the Harad delegation. They were wary, but they were seeking for ways to better know those with whom they dealt. Aragorn smiled slightly at the differences between Gondor and Rohan. They were differences that dated back to the founding of the two kingdoms. The Riders of the Mark were content to let life sweep them in whatsoever direction fate chose, and they trusted to fate that they would endure both hardships and joy. The men of Gondor had very little trust in fate and sought to control it somewhat by learning more of their situation and so altering the course of destiny. Aragorn had no idea which of these two philosophies was best, but it was interesting to see them at work.

Speaking of different philosophies, he caught sight of Legolas and Gimli walking toward him. As usual, they were deep in conversation with one another and seemingly unaware of the outside world. If ever there was a pair of completely opposite and yet completely loyal friends, this was certainly it. Their opinions differed on practically everything, and yet that was part of what drew them together. The chance for a good argument was something that neither elf nor dwarf would willingly pass up, and in their friendship, both had found an intellectual equal capable of defending a different opinion. And as both the elves and dwarves as civilizations had stagnated somewhat and become set in their views, an opportunity to debate a new take on life was an exciting thrill for Gimli and Legolas.

"I see no reason why you should not devote your cloak to the cause. Surely you would not have me catch pneumonia from the cold I will endure by sitting on a wet seat."

"Do all dwarves complain so much or am I merely unfortunate to have you for a companion? A mile or so on a damp seat will do you no harm and I see no reason to shed my cloak so that you might sit on it."

Catching sight of Faensul’s dripping mane, Aragorn swiftly realized what Legolas and Gimli were discussing. Trust those two to turn a simple thing like a wet horse into a full-blown debate! Aragorn’s slight smile widened when Faensul stepped up the pace, trotted next to Gimli, and thoroughly shook himself. The dwarf cried out in surprise and Legolas laughed, calling Faensul over and stroking the great stallion’s neck.

"Do you still wish for my cloak or will it do you any good now?"

"I wish for that horse’s hide and your head to go along with it."

Faensul snorted and snapped his tail briskly at that remark, almost challenging the dwarf to attack him. Legolas laid a calming hand on the stallion’s back and whispered something in the horse’s ear. Faensul shook his head and whinnied in response.

"Are we ready to leave yet?" Gimli asked, and Aragorn could have sworn there was a plaintive whine in the dwarf’s voice.

"Eomer is anxious that the barges be secure in the event that the horses panic," Aragorn answered, looking toward the riverbank. The king of Rohan seemed to be finishing his inspection, and Aragorn hoped that he was satisfied. They had delayed too long already.

After a few more moments, Eomer drifted in Aragorn’s direction, still surveying the barges as one who is forced by necessity to place his faith in something untrustworthy. "They should serve us," he said at length, reaching Aragorn’s side. "But I would have us cross slowly with as few on these crafts as time will permit."

"We cannot spend the bulk of the morning crossing Anduin," Aragorn reminded him, casting a glance toward the east where the sky was beginning to lighten.

"I know, but I would not have use lose horses in the crossing."

"If you are concerned, we shall send the baggage horses first," Aragorn suggested. "Perhaps watching them will relieve you of your fears."

"Perhaps." Eomer did not sound convinced.

Pursing his lips in thought, Aragorn glanced to his left for Legolas. The elf was watching the river with all the fascination of a child in springtime, and behind him, Gimli was watching the prince with all the concern of a parent who likes not his child’s actions. Hiding a smile, Aragorn shook his head. "Legolas?"

Slightly startled, the elf managed to drag his head away from the flowing water. "Yes?"

"Would you consent to ride with the horses on the barges? It will require several trips across the river, but I think you might have a calming effect on the animals. There will be less chance that they shall panic if you are there to assist them."

"Certainly," the elf replied. "It will be my pleasure to help."

"Thank you," Eomer sighed with a grateful look for both Legolas and Aragorn. "Well, since all is in readiness, I will summon the baggage horses."

"And I shall order the crossing," Aragorn said. "Two barges shall travel at once. One shall be for the horses and the other shall be for the men. With the horses we will send one man plus Legolas. It should be sufficient."

"Let us hope so," Eomer murmured, turning and walking toward the Rohirrim.

"He seems troubled," Gimli observed, dodging a spray of water as Faensul raced to the water’s edge and began splashing. "Is there aught we can do?"

"He fears for his horses," Aragorn explained with a slight smile. "Long have the men of Gondor taken steeds across the river in this fashion where there are no bridges, but I fear it is a new thing for the Rohirrim."

"Do they swim their horses then?" the dwarf asked.

"If need be, but Anduin is greater than the rivers in Rohan. It would be folly to cross in that way here. The middle is too swift and deep for safety’s sake."

"I believe Faensul would like to attempt it," Legolas said softly, a smile playing upon his lips as he watched his horse frolic in the foam. "But I yield to your wisdom, and the barges will carry him across. If nothing else, he may speak with the other horses and assure them of their safety. _Tol, Faensul,_ " he suddenly called to his stallion. " _Enni!_ "

With a reluctant snort, the horse left off playing in the water and plodded out of the river toward the elf.

"He is as drawn to water as you are," Gimli observed with a grumble.

"At least both he and I bathe regularly," the elf said with a sidelong look at the dwarf. Gimli spluttered indignantly for a moment while Legolas laughed and Aragorn shook his head. "My apologies, friend," Legolas said, still laughing. "Will you ride the barges with me?"

"And spend more time with this demon you call a horse?" the dwarf demanded. Faensul looked at Gimli, snorted, and then thundered toward him. Startled and alarmed, Gimli tried to race away, but Faensul was soon upon him, shaking vigorously and drenching the unfortunate dwarf.

The sounds of laughter came to his ears as Faensul circled about him in semblance of a victory lap, and Gimli gritted his teeth to hear even Aragorn chuckling quietly. "Perhaps this is a sign of affection," Legolas said in between gasps for air as his mirth got the better of him.

"Perhaps this is a sign that you should better control your animal," Gimli growled, stalking away. Faensul neighed indignantly and tossed his head up. "And as for you," Gimli said with a glare at the horse, "someday I will drape you over my favorite chair in the Glittering Caves."

"We are ready for departure, Aragorn," Eomer suddenly called.

"I am taking the first barge over with the men," Gimli declared, stomping down to the riverbank. "And if that horse so much as comes near me in the meantime, Legolas, I fear you shall find yourself short a mount."

"And so shall you," Legolas called back, moving to the barges where some of the horses were already being loaded with a great deal of coaxing. Seeing the frustration of Pelargir’s men in trying to lead the horses onto the barges, the elf stepped forward to the first animal and spoke quietly, laying a gentle hand on its shoulder. The horse shook his head and then walked forward onto the rocking barge as though he had never been concerned about the prospect.

"Elves," Gimli said to Aragorn in disgust, boarding his own barge. "This shall be a long trip."

"It would be all the longer if he were not here with you," Aragorn replied. Gimli grumbled something as an answer and the king smiled. _And to me, this journey would be far too long if I did not have both of you for company_.

* * * *

It was nearly midmorning before the crossing was completed. The men were over long before the horses, for despite Legolas’s best efforts, there were some animals that panicked and one actually broke through the ropes and boards on the barge and landed in the river. Legolas had jumped in after him and guided him to shore, but the minute the elf had left the barge, the other horses had begun to panic. They were held back by Arhelm, Eomer’s second-in-command, who had been riding the rafts with Legolas, but the event had been a trying capstone to an already stressful morning. Eventually, though, all were on the opposite bank and journeying away from Anduin. They stopped a few miles from the river where a tributary stream ran. And beyond that, even Gimli’s dim eyes could see fields of sand beginning to stretch out beneath the rising sun.

"Behold Harad," Aragorn said at the dwarf’s side while the men began to set up camp behind them. "Tomorrow, we shall enter a dangerous land. We must ride hard during the night to reach Lake Supt before the sun catches us in the open."

Listening to the sound of Aragorn’s voice, the dwarf furrowed his brow and gave the other a studying look. "You suspect something," Gimli said. "You suspect some deception among our escorts."

"They have many hidden secrets," Aragorn said somewhat evasively. "I think some of those secrets might concern us."

"When shall those secrets be revealed?"

"By me or by them?"

"Either."

Aragorn sighed. "I would speak with both you and Legolas before we ride tonight. And I would share some of my suspicions then. But as for the Haradrim, I have no working timeline for their agenda. It may be tomorrow or a week from now. Currently, I have no way to tell. But you are right. I do suspect that something is underway."

"Well, know that the elf and I stand behind you," Gimli pledged, watching as the distant sand caught and reflected the morning sun. A land of light it seemed from here, but it was also dark, containing a shadow of ill will that Gimli could sense even from afar. "Whatever awaits you in that desert, we are with you."

Aragorn put his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and squeezed it slightly, a silent gesture of thanks and camaraderie. "Come," he said. "We must rest for we have far to journey. And we shall have need of all our strength in the days to come." And with a final glance at the desert that awaited their coming, he turned on it and walked back to the camp where Eomer, Legolas, and the others had nearly finished preparations for the day’s camp. After a moment’s hesitation, Gimli followed him. Aragorn was right. There was a sense of foreboding that darkened the skies above and it seemed to find its origins in Harad. Starting tomorrow, they would need every ounce of strength they could muster, and it would be best to start with a good day’s sleep now.

"We shall be ready for you," Gimli murmured to whatever evil force might be listening. "We shall be ready for you, and you will regret ever crossing us."

 

__

Tol, Faensul. Enni! —Come, Faensul. To me!


	6. Into the Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"Gimli? Gimli! Sluggish dwarf, come!"

Pulled away from a fair dream in which Galadriel had been praising the beauty of the Glittering Caves, Gimli rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. As good as friend as Legolas was, he was not Galadriel.

"If you do not wake, Gimli, I shall be forced to shave off your beard so that it will not weary you with its weight."

Significantly more awake now than he had been before this comment, Gimli rolled back over and blinked his eyes. "Touch my beard," he informed the elf with a low growl, "and your immortal life will find itself cut short."

"Then you had best rise and spare us both such unpleasantness," Legolas laughed, standing up and moving away. "We ride in a few hours and Aragorn desires to speak with us."

__

Someday, Gimli promised himself, _I will wake before he does._ For the past few nights, it had been Legolas who had roused Gimli from his slumber. This was not so much of a problem as it was an embarrassment. The elf should have been far more exhausted than the dwarf due to his work with the horses in the early hours of the morning, but Legolas had never really had much of a need for sleep. He took it when his body required it, but he rarely required much. _Elves!_ the dwarf thought disparagingly as he lumbered to his feet and followed the elf away from camp.

Aragorn had found a large rock several hundred yards south of camp, and on this rock he sat and looked out into the desert. Gimli wondered if the king had found any rest during the day or if he had instead sequestered himself here on a self-imposed exile. Eomer was standing slightly behind Aragorn and looked as though he’d just arrived. Legolas walked ahead of Aragorn, his keen eyes gazing south with a penetrating stare that traversed miles.

"Do you see anything of interest?" Gimli asked, walking to his friend’s side.

"Sand, if that interests you," the elf said, but Gimli heard a subtle shift in the prince’s tone that said he saw more than simply sand.

Aragorn also caught the change and furrowed his brow. "Beyond the sand, Legolas, is there aught you can see?"

"The reflection of the sun is strong, and at times its glare seems like water upon the ground. It is difficult for me to see much," the elf answered, skillfully dodging the question.

"Then tell us what you _can_ see," Gimli pressed.

Legolas pursed his lips and shaded his eyes. "Hawks," he finally said.

"Hawks?" Eomer frowned and folded his arms. "Is that important?"

"There are many hawks in the desert," Aragorn added, watching Legolas curiously, but a darker note had entered his voice as well.

"Perhaps so, but these hawks fly together in formation as though trained in this way. They hover just beyond the range of mortal sight, but their eyes are almost a match for my own. They see us as clearly as I see them. And they fly to and fro endlessly, never straying out of range. They are watching us, and something about them bespeaks an ill will."

"Hawks," Aragorn murmured to himself. "It is an ill-portent."

"This means something to you?" Eomer questioned.

"I am not yet sure," Aragorn said quietly, staring into the southern desert. "It could be merely the remaining tradition of a vanished people that others have taken to as one might take to a sport. Or it could be something else. Something not quite as innocent or trifling…" He trailed off and frowned, cradling his chin in the palm of his hand and considering this new piece of information.

"Birds," Gimli grumbled. "If they shall hinder our journey, I should like to know how. Come, Aragorn. Legolas said you wished to speak with us."

"I do," Aragorn said slowly, still considering the hawks. "There are things of Harad I would have you know before we enter. And there are suspicions I would share concerning some with whom we travel."

"I, too, have suspicions," Eomer added. "I think they run along similar lines, but I desire to hear yours first. You have been in this land before and so have the advantage of better reasoning."

"We all have suspicions," Legolas said quietly, not taking his eyes from the desert. "But such things we have handled in the past. I would know more about this land, for I see neither trees nor water in the distance. Nor can I see as far as I am accustomed to seeing, for the sun’s glare does much to obscure distant objects. The horizon waves as does the air just above a camp fire."

"Heat," Aragorn said, his voice soft and reflective. "The sand of Harad might easily serve as an oven during the day. That is why we must travel at night. And you will find no trees in this land, Legolas. Or if you do, they will surround what few waters there are and they will be short and stunted. It is not a forgiving place in which to live. And because of this," he continued, directing his words to Eomer and Gimli in addition to Legolas, "there are certain traditions we must respect. We will reach a hidden lake in the morning known as Lake Supt. The moment we arrive, do not go for water. And do not allow the horses to drink. We must set up camp. The tents are easy enough, but there are also carpets on the pack horses that must be laid down, for the sand changes from bitter cold during the night to uncomfortably warm during the day."

"But what of water?" Eomer asked. "The horses will need it after the long night of travel."

"They will, but they cannot be allowed to drink their fill. Each horse must be personally escorted to the lake’s edge, and there are small troughs along the side. The horses are allowed as much water as will fit in the trough. Make certain you do not spill a single drop, for such a crime in Harad will bring down the wrath of the tribes and possibly cost you your life. And Legolas," Aragorn said with a sharp glance at the elf, "have an eye on Faensul. He cannot play in the lake or you and he will both be killed."

"He will not wander near it," Legolas promised, still staring into the southern desert.

"What of the horses during the day?" Eomer questioned. "Must they endure the heat of the sun?"

"We have a large tent for their comfort," Aragorn answered. "Though I am afraid they will have to do without the comfort of carpets. But the tent is for more than shelter. Men must stand guard at all times, for there are many small tribes in Harad that are known for their skills in thievery. A horse of Rohan would be a rare prize."

"Could we simply give them the elf horse instead and so appease them?" Gimli wondered.

"It would be better for us to give you away, Gimli, but I fear they would not take you off our hands," Legolas responded.

Eomer laughed at Gimli’s outraged expression, but he quickly sobered and turned back to Aragorn. "Through jest, I think Legolas has mentioned something of import. The Haradrim who escort us do not like us. Dashnir is a competent individual and I would know more of him, but I sense…" The horse lord trailed off, uncertain of his words. "I am drawn to him," he said at length. "Almost I feel fascinated by him, yet I know not from whence this feeling comes. To me, it seems unnatural, and I suspect he is far more than a mere delegate from the Khurintu tribe."

"Indeed, he is far more than a mere delegate," Aragorn said with a slight smile. "He is second-in-command of Khurintu, second only to their tribal leader. And the Khurintu tribe wields great power in the desert. Many know his name, and his commands are met with obedience and fear."

"I know this," Eomer said testily with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I speak of more, though. There is something else about him that I do not like. He is arrogant and aloof, but such traits are common in a man of his station. He is foreign and his ways are different, but such things are to be expected. Yet something about him does not sit right with me. I cannot say what, but I advise that he be watched."

"I feel the same," Legolas said, turning at last from the southern desert and shifting his attention to the conversation. "There is a shadow over his mind and darkness in his gaze. It may be nothing other than small falsehoods and ambitious plots to further his position among the tribes, but such things could affect us and it would be well if we kept him under careful observation."

"And what say you, Gimli?" Aragorn asked. "What does your heart reveal pertaining to this matter?"

"I must reluctantly admit that I am in agreement with Eomer and the elf," Gimli said. "I have not Legolas’s elven instincts nor Eomer’s experience in evaluating men and the nature of their designs, but I feel no good will from this man. Even the other members of his delegation seem to fear him."

"Garat does not fear him, but he greatly respects him," Legolas corrected, naming the delegate from the war-like Warra tribe.

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, falling into silence and gazing southward into the desert. His companions waited—some more patiently than others—for his evaluation of their remarks. And at length their wait was awarded. "It seems we are all in agreement, though we have always suspected that there is more in this invitation than a first glance would see. But I am not yet convinced that Dashnir is our foe, though he was the intended victim of the potion back in Dol Amroth. There is something of a dark nobility about him. I wondered at first whether…" Aragorn abruptly trailed off and shook his head. "It is no matter. We are all wary and for now that will have to suffice. Stay on your guard and remember what I said concerning the water. The easiest way to offend in this country is to abuse rights to water."

"I shall inform my riders, but the matter of the water will not please them," Eomer warned. "If the horses are pressed, it will be difficult to keep them from the lake once we reach it."

"As difficult as it might be, it must be done," Aragorn said firmly. "It would not do to enter Harad and promptly begin a war."

"It would save us the problem of seeking out possible plots and intrigues," Gimli remarked, having very little stomach for the endless diplomacy and double speak involved in government.

"It would also unite the tribes of Harad against us," Aragorn said. "And with our current numbers, we could not stand up to them." The king sighed and stood. "Come, then. Let us break camp and speak such words as must be spoken to the men. Tonight we enter Harad. We must all be prepared."

The others nodded quietly and turned to leave, but Aragorn did not follow them immediately. Instead, he cast his eyes back to the desert and frowned. "Legolas? A moment, please."

The elf turned back and walked to the king’s side. "What is it?"

"Are the hawks still there?"

"They are, though some of them seem to have broken away from the main group. They are now flying south."

"Are any within range of your bow?"

Legolas smiled and drew an arrow from his quiver. "I do not think I could hit those that broke away, but of the main group that still watches, you may have your pick of hawks."

"Target one who seems to be in the lead," Aragorn instructed, straining his eyes against the distance and attempting to catch of a glimpse of what Legolas saw clearly. "It will be a larger bird, female most likely, and probably near the center of their flight circles."

"An easy enough task," the elf said, setting the arrow and drawing it back against the bowstring. He paused for a moment, evaluating several possible birds, and then released the bolt. It flew fast and far, swiftly passing from Aragorn’s sight, and then a shriek went up. Other cries were heard, whistles and harsh squawks sounded from afar, and then all fell quiet again.

"I trust you were successful?"

"Did you doubt my aim?" Legolas sounded indignant.

Aragorn smiled. "Never. Shall we fetch our quarry?"

"By your leave, I shall bring it in," Legolas offered, turning and whistling for Faensul. "If my ears do no deceive me, camp is stirring and it would seem odd to the Haradrim if you were known to be away. As an elf, all things I do are deemed odd."

"True enough," the king laughed. He shook his head and glanced back out to the desert, eventually nodding his approval. "Go then, but when you return, show no one if that is possible. This is something I would have kept secret, particularly from certain members of the Harad delegation."

"You suspect they are involved with these hawks?" Legolas asked.

"If they are, I would not have them alerted to our suspicions," Aragorn answered evasively. "And if they are not, we lose nothing in exercising caution."

Legolas smiled, recognizing the dodge for what it was, and held up his hand to signal Faensul who was galloping toward them. "It shall be as you counsel, then," he promised, jumping easily onto the white stallion’s back as the elven horse thundered up. "I shall return discreetly." And with that, he turned Faensul and urged him toward the desert.

How Legolas was going to manage a discreet return was something Aragorn did not know, for Faensul was keenly aware of the impression he made on others and was all too ready to exploit it whenever possible. Still, Legolas was an elf, and if anyone could be discreet, an elf could. With a sigh, Aragorn turned and started back to camp, directing his mind to the more mundane matters of organizing a guard unit for departure and relegating to the back of his mind—for the moment at least—his growing suspicions concerning their journey into Harad.

* * * *

Dashnir was anxious to be off, as were the other delegates. He could sense their growing restlessness and hoped it would not translate poorly in the minds of the men from Gondor and Rohan. He suspected it wouldn’t, for the Rohirrim were restless enough in their own right, and the men of Gondor seemed to expect that anyone who was not from their kingdom would be restless and antsy, something they probably developed after enduring too many campaigns with the Riders of Rohan. An ingrained stereotype like that could not be readily changed no matter how composed the delegation from Harad might seem, so Dashnir did not worry overmuch.

His possessions already prepared and his horse saddled and waiting, the representative from the Khurintu tribe settled back and watched the breaking of camp. He was forced to admit that it was a neat and efficient process. Every man seemed to have an assigned task, each task was carried out quickly and easily, and for all that Dashnir could see, there were no shirkers. Everyone was involved, even Aragorn and Eomer who were filling water skins with the dwarf.

Dashnir’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the camp once more. Now that was odd. Where you saw one, the other was usually not far away, yet Gimli was quite alone. Where was the elf? He cursed himself quietly, for he had vowed to keep a sharp eye on both of them in addition to his continuing evaluations of Eomer and Aragorn. Somehow, Legolas had slipped his attention. And now that he looked, he realized the elf’s horse was also missing. How had that happened? Both were highly conspicuous, yet their absence seemed not so.

But maybe this was for the best. He could observe Gimli as a separate individual rather than an eternal extension of the elf. Or perhaps Legolas was an extension of the dwarf. Dashnir hadn’t decided which was the appropriate categorization, for it seemed one would be in charge, then the other, then they would simply be arguing, then one would give commands while the other obeyed, then the situation would reverse itself, and then the horse would somehow become involved at which point the situation quickly dissolved into chaos. Dashnir was still attempting to figure out which of the two set the terms of their friendship and which commanded the greater respect. To think that they might consider themselves equals was not a possibility, for in Dashnir’s mind, every being had a rank. Even among friends, it was evident as to who was the better. If that fact were contested, they were friends no longer but enemies. Obviously, Legolas and Gimli had worked out who was the better in their relationship, but for some reason, it was difficult for Dashnir to discern the result of that decision.

With a shake of his head, Dashnir left his horse and moved to the small stream where the multiple water skins were being filled. "If I am not intruding, perhaps I could be of some assistance," he offered, bowing low to both Aragorn and Eomer.

"By all means," Aragorn said, moving aside so that Dashnir could have access to the stream. "This will probably be our last area of preparation before setting out."

Dashnir nodded, accepting the information as an offer of casual conversation and cataloguing it as such. "Your men work well," he said. "Rarely have I seen such discipline and training."

"They are soldiers of Gondor," Aragorn replied as though that were answer enough.

"And of the Mark," Eomer added, not to be outdone.

Dashnir smiled at the other’s youth and then turned to the dwarf, the true motivating factor behind his offer to assist them. "And what of yourself, Gimli?" he asked. "Whence stems your allegiance?"

"A dwarf is loyal to friends and kin first and foremost," Gimli answered, sending Dashnir a rather intense look out of the corner of his eye. "Those who claim me as brother or friend also claim my loyalty."

That was not exactly the answer Dashnir was looking for, but it was a rather interesting one in any case. "So you have no kingdom or tribe?"

"My father is renowned among the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and that was my first home, but I am currently Lord of the Glittering Caves, a dwarf colony within Rohan."

"And a great asset to Rohan, I might add," Eomer said. "Our armory has never been so full nor have our helms and shields ever been so expertly crafted."

"And what of Legolas?" Dashnir questioned, processing each bit of information that was being offered. "To whom does he owe allegiance?"

"Legolas?" Gimli snorted. "As an elf, his allegiance is to the trees."

"His father is king of Greenwood the Great, firmly known as Mirkwood," Aragorn supplied with a smile. "As a prince there, he is technically bound to defend it should the need arise. But like Gimli, he does not live in his original home. He is Lord of Ithilien, and with other elves he rules the southern forests on the east side of Anduin."

"So you rule different kingdoms?" Dashnir asked. The mystery behind these two was growing deeper.

"Say not kingdoms but colonies," Gimli corrected.

"And are there many treaties between your two colonies?"

Gimli paused to think about that one. "Not as such, no. It is known to all that Legolas and I can tolerate one another’s presence. I suppose there has never been a need for any formal agreements. If his elves have a desire for crafted metal, we provide. If we have a need for wine or fine sculptures, they can provide that."

Dashnir frowned. "What of war?"

"My dwarves are perfectly capable of caring for themselves," Gimli said proudly. "Beyond that, we are in Rohan."

"And Legolas and the elves feel likewise in addition to having the protection of Gondor," Aragorn added. "If there were a threat, I have no doubt that the dwarves of the Glittering Caves would march to the aid of the elves in Ithilien, and the elves would do likewise. But neither one has felt the need for a formal treaty."

The conversation was not yielding the information that Dashnir desired, as he could have inferred—and for the most, already had inferred—most of it on his own. What he needed to know was the ranking of certain individuals. It was clear that Aragorn ruled over them all, and Dashnir believed that Eomer held some sway over Gimli while Legolas was more or less independent of Eomer but still beneath Aragorn. But what he did not know was how Legolas and Gimli ranked one another in terms of this hierarchy. Thinking that perhaps a new approach was called for in this conversation, he decided to become more direct. "Would you permit me to ask a hypothetical question?"

"Ask," Gimli responded, tying off the last water bottle that needed filling.

"If the dwarves and elves were forced to unite in the event of a war, by whom would they be led."

Gimli thought about that for a moment. "Aragorn, if he consented to do so," he finally answered.

"But what if Aragorn was unable to do so?"

"And how would that come about?" Aragorn asked, a hint of warning entering his voice.

Dashnir cursed silently. "Not through any mishap, I assure you," Dashnir said quickly. "But if Gimli and Legolas were away from Gondor and Rohan with some of their kind and were forced to organize in battle, who would take command?"

"I suspect it would be a joint command," Gimli said, puzzled by the direction of the questions. "May I ask the reason for your inquiries?"

"I have heard little of elves and dwarves," Dashnir answered honestly, acutely aware that Aragorn, Gimli, and Eomer were all eyeing him suspiciously. "I wished to know their manners and policies."

"Manners and policies as relating to war?" Gimli pressed.

"I did not intend offense," Dashnir responded. "I feel we misunderstand one another. My own tribe is composed of warriors, and as such we evaluate others. I know nothing of how your kind conducts battle, and so I feel I know nothing of you."

"All is in readiness, Aragorn!"

Dashnir felt some consolation in the fact that he was not the only startled by Legolas’s sudden arrival. Eomer jumped slightly, and Gimli glared, but Aragorn seemed as though he had been expecting the elf to appear abruptly.

"Have you used the morning productively?" the king of Gondor asked.

"Indeed, I have. I have seen that your saddlebags are stocked and Faensul has confirmed that Arnor is ready for the long road ahead, though there was some uncertainty for a moment."

Aragorn nodded, his face thoughtful. "I thank you for your troubles, Legolas. You were truly quick and thorough as you promised."

Dashnir was not a fool. No fool could survive life in the Khurintu tribe, much less achieve a position of power. And since Dashnir was not a fool, he was immediately aware that some hidden message had just passed between elf and king, but he was at loss as to what that message might have been. Eomer and Gimli looked as though they had missed the significance of the conversation. There would be no help there. Glancing toward the elf, Dashnir was disconcerted to see that Legolas was watching him closely, his bright gray eyes seeming to bore holes in Dashnir’s very soul and read secrets hidden in the darkness of his mind.

Quickly looking away and ignoring the nagging voice that told him he had just lost a challenge, Dashnir turned his attention to Aragorn. "If we are ready, honored one, we should be on our way. As you know, Lake Supt is a hard night’s ride."

"That it is," Aragorn said. "Let us depart. The sun is setting and the desert will be cooling. Eomer, summon your riders to formation. Come, Legolas and Gimli. Call Faensul and mount. We are ready to ride."

As the group broke apart, Dashnir replayed his conversation with the dwarf and the subsequent conversation between Legolas and Aragorn. But he found nothing that he did not already know or could not have easily guessed. Eomer was proud of his kingdom and its military prowess, Aragorn held sway over all, Legolas was trusted in special assignments, Gimli was confident in his abilities and had proved to be a source of aid for Rohan, and the hierarchy of the friendship between Legolas and Gimli was still uncertain. His tribal leader would not be pleased with the report he would send him when they reached Lake Supt. There were still too many variable in the equations. Swinging up onto his mount, Dashnir ground his teeth in frustration and rode toward the gathering forces. Tonight, he would have to gather more information. The future of his tribe depended on it.

* * * *

"A strange country," Gimli murmured. "What can your eyes see, Legolas? Is there any break to this…this sand?"

Before him on Faensul, Legolas straightened slightly and turned his eyes to the dark horizon as they rode, searching for anything other than the endless stretch of desert sand. There was a glimmer that he thought might be Lake Supt, but it seemed to be in a low basin and he could discern no more. There were rocky structures in the far distance, but they were vague and difficult to see. "I fear I cannot help you in that, for I see little," he told the dwarf, stroking Faensul’s neck and willing the horse to gauge his gallop and stay behind Aragorn. "I may see the hidden lake to which we ride, but I am uncertain."

They had ridden for a good four hours with one brief stop to allow the horses time to catch their breaths and then they had been off again. Faensul and Shade were holding up remarkably well, but that was to be expected from an elven horse and the chief of the _Mearas_. The horses of the Rohirrim were in fairly good shape as well, though Legolas could hear them occasionally complaining of thirst. The mounts beneath Aragorn and his men, though, were a different story altogether. As the night began to wear on, they began to wear out. They were thirsty and tired, and they could not smell water, which disturbed them greatly.

They were not the only ones disturbed, though. An hour after they set out, all hint of vegetation had vanished and they rode hard over nothing but shifting sand. For Legolas, who was used to the background speech of plants and trees, the total silence was unnerving. Even the rocks were quiet, too weary from endless wind and sand to speak. Legolas wondered how mortals managed to live in a world so quiet. Perhaps that was why they made so much noise when they went about their business. They were compensating for the voices they could not hear.

But in this place, even the ears of an elf could find nothing of music or song. It was a wasteland of death, scorched dry by the sun and bereft of life. Never had Legolas felt so utterly alone. Gimli sat behind him, Faensul ran effortlessly beneath him, and Aragorn rode swiftly on his right, but despite this company, the elf was alone. He felt sundered from the stream of nature and its timeless song that harmonized with the grand music of all the ages. He was disconnected from any sense of history or past. He was alone in time and space, forced to span an endless moment and fill the gaps of yesterday with his own memories while sparing enough for the horrors of tomorrow.

"Is there a resemblance that I cannot see?"

Legolas shook his head, aware that Gimli was speaking to him. "Pardon?"

The dwarf sighed. "I asked if you found a resemblance between the sea and this desert."

Legolas frowned in confusion, attempting to interpret the dwarf’s cryptic words. "Nothing could be more different," he eventually answered. "Where the sea holds life and promise, this land holds death and doom. I feel it in the tortured earth."

"Then why does it affect you so?" Gimli wondered. "Almost I resorted to shaking you so that you did not fall from this demon’s back." Hearing this remark, Faensul snorted and snapped his tail high, catching part of Gimli’s arm.

"I was listening," Legolas answered, knowing this would not satisfy the dwarf but having no other ready answer. "There is no life here. I…I cannot hear any life. All is silent for miles and miles. A land should not be forced to endure this, and yet…in truth, Gimli, I cannot say. I know only that I am troubled by this land. I mistrust its silence and I fear it may be under a dark sway."

"Do you think your feelings are warnings of things to come or merely the reactions of an elf unaccustomed to such desolation?"

"I do not doubt that some of my feelings are indeed reactions of distaste, but there is something more. There is some power that almost I can sense, but I find myself at a loss when I attempt to identify it. It is elusive and slips away when I try touch it." The elf fell quiet for a minute and then seemed to start slightly, swiveling his head to the side.

"What is it?"

"Hawks," Legolas whispered. "They keep pace with us. I wonder why I did not see them until now."

"The same hawks you saw earlier today?" Gimli wondered curiously.

"In the darkness, I cannot tell from this distance," Legolas admitted reluctantly. "But…" He turned Faensul closer to Aragorn.

Sensing the elf’s approach, Aragorn reigned Arnor back slightly and turned a questioning gaze on the prince. "Do you sense something?"

"The hawks are back," Legolas answered quietly. "They follow us just beyond range of mortal sight. There do not seem to be as many now as there were, but they fly in formation and I think I can catch similar markings on the wing."

The king nodded slightly, turning his eyes in the direction that Legolas indicated, but he could see nothing for himself. "We shall have to endure them," he said quietly. "Keep an eye on them, though, Legolas. If they change their course or purpose, I wish to know of it."

"They shall not escape my eyes," the elf promised, easing Faensul away from the galloping Arnor. The horse snorted, disgusted with what he deemed a snail’s pace, and Legolas rubbed his neck soothingly. "Can you see the Haradrim, Gimli?" Legolas asked, his voice a mere whisper.

Puzzled, Gimli tried to turn his upper body without falling off Faensul. "Some of them," he eventually answered.

"Do any of them look east?"

Gimli was quick to note that the elf’s hawks were also in the east and wondered what the elf suspected. Turning again to look over the Haradrim, he examined as many as he could without appearing unduly conspicuous. "Three of them look to the east," he finally answered. "Dashnir of the Khurintu tribe, his friend Garat of the Warra tribe, and Bron of the Portu tribe."

"What do you know of Bron?" the elf asked. "He does not associate with many of his comrades.

"No, he does not. But I have seen him speaking to both Garat and Dashnir at times. I do not think he enjoys their company, but they both seem to hold some sway over him," the dwarf said. "I remember Aragorn tell us that the Portu tribe was a northern tribe specializing in horses. He seemed to think they were sent as a member of the delegation because they would be interested in trade with Rohan. I do not remember them as being a very powerful tribe."

"Nor do I," Legolas murmured. "Horses…I wonder. Bron’s mount looks no better than do the other mounts of the Haradrim."

"I fear I am no judge of these four-legged demons," Gimli said. "That includes the white one below me," he added for Faensul’s benefit. The horse snorted and bucked slightly in response, causing Gimli to grab wildly at the elf in front of him.

"Peace," Legolas said absently, directing his words to both dwarf and stallion. His eyes narrowed as he watched the hawks circle and dip. He cast a glance at one of Aragorn’s saddlebags where he’d stored the hawk from the afternoon. He still couldn’t be certain, but he was of the impression that the birds in the desert and the bird he’d shot were from the same group and had received the same training.

"They are still there?" Gimli asked after a significant pause.

"They do not stray from their course. They keep abreast of us," Legolas answered.

"Well, Dashnir, Garat, and Bron still gaze to the east as though looking for something. It cannot be a coincidence."

"I do not think it is, but what it might mean is something that escapes me." The elf frowned and sighed, continuing to watch the distant birds. "Let us speak with Aragorn once camp is set. There are other things I would say to him."

"And hopefully there are things he will say to us," Gimli added. "But what those things might be I cannot guess."

"Nor I, but something is happening in this land. I feel a great evil and a shadow. Each stride our horses take carries us deeper into darkness."

"And there are those who would seek elves for comfort," Gimli grumped, but Legolas let that remark slide, ignoring the dwarf and concentrating instead on the growing sense of malice and watchfulness. Fell deeds and fell thoughts were about this night. Legolas could only hope that the coming misfortune could be successfully weathered. This barren desert would be an ill place to die.


	7. Attacked at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Aragorn upended the contents of a saddlebag onto a thick carpet and stepped back, waiting for the reactions of his companions. Sitting cross-legged slightly away from the others, Legolas also watched and waited. Gimli and Eomer, on the other hand, were puzzled and rather disturbed. 

"How did you come by a dead hawk?" the dwarf asked, frowning as he studied the bird. 

"And why have you been carrying it around?" Eomer added, equally confused. 

"Legolas shot the bird yesterday before we set out," Aragorn explained softly, keeping his voice quiet and secretive. "It was one of the birds he saw watching us from the desert. I have already examined it, and I show it to you now to ask your opinions." 

They were gathered in the main tent where all four would be sleeping. Despite Legolas’s grim misgivings during the ride, they had reached Lake Supt without any mishap and with an hour to spare before the rising of the sun. Camp had been made swiftly and efficiently, and guards were now watering the horses after listening to strict instructions on the subject from both Aragorn and Eomer. The sun was half an hour away now, and it seemed they might make it through the night safely. 

"It’s a bird and it’s dead," Gimli said shortly in response to Aragorn’s words. He looked at Legolas and raised an eyebrow, hoping to hear some profound statement from the elf. Legolas stifled a smile of amusement and shook his head. 

Eomer, on the other hand, took a bit more time in his study. "What are these markings?" he eventually asked. "We have similar hawks in the southern portions of Rohan, yet these patterns beneath the wing are strange to me. These…these look to be marks of ownership." 

Aragorn nodded and gently spread one of the bird’s wings. "Yes, these markings. Curious things, if nothing else. Strange, aren’t they? Tell me, do you see something in them? An image, perhaps?" 

At this, Legolas sat up a bit and looked at the bird. He had also noted the strange dye markings when he’d retrieved the hawk, but he had not seen a pattern to them. Yet now… 

"It looks like a tree," Gimli offered, becoming interested again. 

"No, it looks like a dead tree," Legolas corrected quietly. "Made with black dye." He looked up at Aragorn, his eyes questioning and fearful. "Do you see the same picture that I see?" 

"You know this pattern, then?" Aragorn asked. 

"Only its history," Legolas answered. "My father and one of my older brothers would know it by sight, though, as they once fought them." 

"I think Gimli and I are both at something of a loss," Eomer hinted. "If the mystery behind this pattern could be revealed in the near future, I would count it as a favorable thing." 

"Think of the symbol of Numenor." 

"A white tree and stars," Gimli said quietly, suddenly realizing what the markings on the hawk represented. 

"And here we have a dying tree in black," Eomer murmured. "Direct opposition to Gondor." 

"The white tree and stars were around long before Gondor," Aragorn said. "They were symbols of Numenor during the days of is glory. But those who betrayed Numenor chose for their banner something that would directly confront the emblems of their former brethren. They chose the dying tree, and for its color they chose black. They became known as the Black Numenoreans, servants of Sauron. During the days of Elendil and Isildur, they were driven back and defeated, but a remnant survived. It seems a remnant always survives," Aragorn sighed. 

"Did you encounter the descendents of the Black Numenoreans on your previous trip to Harad?" Legolas wondered. 

"I did," Aragorn said quietly. "They’d studied the dark arts and some had become great sorcerers. It was my hope that they had fallen when the Ring was destroyed. It appears this was not the case." 

"An evil as great and far-reaching as Sauron cannot wholly be destroyed, I think," Gimli mused. "Not in a single lifetime, in any case. Unless of course that lifetime belongs to an elf," he finished with a glance at his best friend. 

"Nay, not even then," Legolas answered sadly, still studying the wings of the hawk. "For evil does not truly die, and ever it finds a new form. Sauron was but a resurgence of the evil first introduced by Melkor, or Morgoth, as you would know him. Not until the final confrontation will evil be erased completely, and none know when that day will come." 

"But what of the evil we face here?" Eomer broke in, attempting to get the conversation back on track. "You say Black Numenoreans survived Sauron’s fall and thrive even now in the desert. If you are right, they will seek your destruction, Aragorn." 

"I doubt it not," Aragorn answered with a slight shrug. "But I cannot recall a time when my life was not sought by some enemy or another. What concerns me here is the welfare of Gondor, Rohan, and of those who journey with me. We travel into the enemy’s territory, and that gives them the advantage. They know this land better than we do, and they will use that to their advantage. Also, these are not petty, quarreling orcs. They have purpose, discipline, and honor." 

"They are as yourself, Aragorn, only they serve dark masters," Legolas observed quietly. "You share the same blood and the same ancestry. This will not be an easy trial." 

"But let us not forget out advantages," Gimli spoke up. "We have the strength of the Rohirrim, the power of Gondor, and the bow of Galadriel in the hands of one of Mirkwood’s finest archers." 

"And yourself, Master Dwarf, let us not forget that," Eomer added with a smile. 

"But pit those advantages against a desert filled with hostile Haradrim," Legolas challenged. "How much of an advantage remains?" 

"Peace," Aragorn broke in, fearing the discussion might turn toward argument. "I think it important that we not underestimate this threat, but neither should we overestimate it. Even in the days of his power, Sauron did not hold sway over all of Harad. Most tribes did pay him tribute, but many did so out of fear and not loyalty. Mohart’s Gartabo tribe was one of these. And as it did among the Dúnedain in the north, the blood of Numenor runs thin over time. There are very few here who can claim to be descendents of Numenoreans." 

"Yet even a small threat can be a deadly one," Legolas pointed out. 

Aragorn nodded in agreement. "Which is why I have shared this information with you. We must be aware of our enemy’s strength. But let us not make that strength greater than it is, for then we give them a power over us that by all rights they should not possess." 

"We give them power if we do not consider their strengths," Legolas argued. "By doing so, we make it possible for them to take us unawares." 

"Bands of hunting orcs have taken us unawares before, Legolas, and yet we have always prevailed," Gimli said. 

"And there is also the fact that not all of the tribes are aligned with the Black Numenoreans, correct?" Eomer added. 

"Correct," Aragorn confirmed. "In fact, during the time I spent among this people, it was my observation that those of Numenorean descent were frowned upon and sometimes exiled. The Haradrim are highly suspicious of outsiders, and as I said before, they fear what cannot be immediately understood. The bloodline of Numenor is seen as something of a mystery. With that heritage comes rights, privileges, and abilities that are not to be found in the common man." 

"Meaning that those who are descended from Numenor shall be hidden from Haradrim society. We will not be able to identify them," Legolas cautioned, feeling that this matter was not being treated with the gravity it deserved. His elven senses had already been on edge and this new discovery was setting them off again. 

"I hear your warnings, Legolas," Aragorn said, aware that the elf was becoming frustrated. "Rest assured that we will take all necessary precautions. This is a dangerous threat. Numenorean blood in the veins of an enemy is not a thing to be taken lightly. I recoil at the thought of battling my kindred, but if such steps must be taken, then I will take them. 

"And we will take those steps together," Eomer promised, pledging the support of Rohan. "It is as Gimli has already said. Together, it matters not if we are taken unawares. We can meet any threat." 

"You see, Legolas? You are overestimating the threat," Gimli added. 

Elven eyes narrowed and Aragorn feared he might have to step between the two when a commotion outside the tent suddenly caught his attention. His hand flying to Anduril and loosening it in its scabbard, he hurried to one of the two tent flaps and stepped outside, noting that Eomer, Gimli, and Legolas were only a few steps behind him. 

"Sire!" Imhran, captain of Gondor’s guard, was racing toward the main tent, and upon seeing Aragorn emerge, he skidded to a halt and quickly pointed away from the hidden lake and toward the desert. "Sire, we are under attack!" 

Cries and challenging screams began to hit their ears, and in the predawn darkness, a line of many horsemen riding hard could be made out. They were spread wide as though to increase the breadth of their strike as they neared the encampment. "Raiders!" Aragorn swore, immediately recognizing the pattern of attack. 

"We’re outnumbered," Legolas said, using his sharp eyes to get a quick estimation of the size of the force that drew near. 

"But they will not use numbers as their primary weapon," Aragorn said, thinking quickly. "They seek to confuse us and drive us from the horses. Well, two can use the same strategy. Eomer, get your riders mounted and lead a charge that will sweep you through their line and beyond it. Then circle back and engage them. Legolas, your bow would be appreciated in defending the remaining horses should any raiders bypass our defense. Gimli, you and I shall lead Gondor in the ground attack." 

"Ah, now this diplomacy is more to my liking," Gimli laughed, swinging his axe and charging after Aragorn as the king raced through the chaos, calling for his men to follow. 

For his part, Aragorn ignored the dwarf. Horse raiders in Harad were adept at their trade and this would not be an easy attack to repel. He heard a whistle go up behind him and knew that Eomer was summoning the Rohirrim. At least there were horses that would not be taken by these thieves, and Aragorn felt a brief flash of pity for any man that attempted to steal a horse of Rohan while his rider lived. 

Pulling Anduril from its scabbard, he sprinted toward the raiders who were drawing ever closer to the perimeter of camp. The Rohirrim galloped past him and he heard Eomer’s voice commanding the charge, breaking the riders into smaller groups and separating them out so that when they hit the raiders it would be as a swell of the sea pounding against an eroding cliff. Knowing very well what was about to happen, Aragorn quickened his pace and yelled at his following men to do the same. 

The Rohirrim slammed into the mounted raiders and swept through them, not bothering to pause and battle but merely rushing through with the speed of the wind and inflicting as much damage as such a brief contact would allow. Startled by this sudden rush and also by its sudden end, many of the raiders’ horses reared in fright, unseating their masters. Still others fell, wounded by the quick swords and spears of the Rohirrim. And then Aragorn and his men hit the group. 

Already stunned by the ferocity and speed of Rohan’s attack, the raiders tried heroically to prepare themselves for the rush of Aragorn, Gimli, and Gondor. To their credit, they recovered faster than Aragorn had hoped they would. Grossly outnumbered and with some of the raiders still on horseback, Aragorn and many of his men soon found themselves beset on all sides. Shouting to his men, Aragorn began leading an organized retreat back toward the camp, buying enough time for the Rohirrim to circle around and charge back through. 

"Down!" a voice suddenly commanded to Aragorn’s right. Without hesitation, Aragorn parried a sword blow and ducked. Gimli’s axe whistled overhead and sliced through an attacker who’d come up behind Aragorn. 

"My thanks, son of Gloin," Aragorn called, immediately straightening and blocking another sword blow before moving into a more offensive position and offering an attack of his own. Right, left, and under swung Anduril, and the raider soon received a sword to the stomach. Pulling his sword back, Aragorn spun and caught a descending blade on the hilt, trapping it between sword and hilt guard. Pushing forward, Aragorn knocked the attacking man onto his back and sliced downward. Then he hit the ground and rolled to the side, barely missing a thrown spear. Coming out of the roll onto his feet, his left hand reached back, seized the spear haft, and launched it back at its source. The scream of a horse indicated he had scored a hit and Aragorn would have followed up on his advantage had he not heard Eomer’s cry. 

"To me!" Aragorn shouted, summoning the men of Gondor. "Back! The Rohirrim come again!" 

His commands were not a moment too soon, for Eomer and his riders hit the rearguard of the raiders like a violent and furious storm, driving the attacking force forward in a mass of confusion. Raiders rushed past Aragorn as they realized it was folly to answer a two-front attack, and Aragorn realized they were making a beeline for the camp. 

Two bodies were suddenly launched over Aragorn and then Gimli was at his side, bloody axe raised high. "They’re going for the tents!" the dwarf shouted. 

"Enough of them have been unhorsed that finding new mounts is their only means of escape," Aragorn yelled back, breaking into a run and swinging Anduril abruptly to the side as a large raider bore down on them. 

"Let us hope that Legolas’s arrows fly as true as they ever have," Gimli said, skidding to a halt and swinging his axe backward into the face of an oncoming opponent. "I fear we will not be able to turn all who run his direction." 

"I saw some of the delegates from Harad going for their swords ere we rushed the raiders," Aragorn said, jumping away from a swinging mace and moving quickly back in before his attacker could recover from the missed blow. "I do not think Legolas stands alone before the horses. The Haradrim have as much to lose as we do. Without horses, they will not reach Haradhur on time." 

"All the same, let us see if we can make our way toward the elf," Gimli advised, ducking beneath a blow and turning axe to knock the legs out from under two raiders. "From afar he is not to be matched, but in close combat he leaves much to be desired." 

"I believe jealousy is speaking, Gimli," Aragorn said with a small laugh, slamming his shoulder into one man while catching another’s throat with Anduril. "I have seen Legolas use his knife in close quarters, and it is a sight to behold. Still, you are right. He is better when his enemies keep their distance. But I am curious," he continued, jumping back from a sword strike and swinging hard with the pommel of his own sword, "as to how you intend to get back to Legolas." 

"Ho, Aragorn!" a new voice called before the dwarf was given a chance to answer. Eomer swerved Shade toward Aragorn and Gimli, dispatching raiders with his sword while his war-horse neighed in challenge and trampled those who would not flee before him. 

"Eomer, can you send a detachment back to the encampment to deal with those who have been unhorsed?" Aragorn called. He wished he’d taken the time to mount Arnor so that he could have a better view of the battle, but it was a little late for that now. 

"I have already done so," Eomer called, shifting his weight as Shade reared and struck out at an attacker. "Arhelm leads the charge, but Legolas, Dashnir, and Garat seem to be holding their own before the tents." The king of the Rohirrim seemed about to say something else, but he suddenly cursed and threw his hand up before his eyes. The sun shot over the horizon, filling the desert with a blinding light and a sudden rise in temperature. 

The raiders all cried aloud and something akin to a retreat began to take place, though it was more of a rout than an ordered disengagement. Squinting in the morning light, Aragorn lashed out once more with Anduril and stepped back, watching as the raiders began to flee across the desert. His sharp eyes watched for signs than any horses had been stolen, but he noted with satisfaction that most of those fleeing before the sun were on foot. As a first lesson to those in Harad, this raid had worked quite favorably on the behalf of Gondor and Rohan. 

"How will they survive in the desert?" Gimli wondered, also watching the departing raiders. "I feel the sun as a burning fire already, and it has but recently risen. Are they so accustomed to heat and lack of water that they may endure the day without shelter?" 

"No. They are more used to the desert than we and so have a greater degree of tolerance, but they are still men and as such they have their limits. I know of no one in Harad who would dare the wrath of the summer sun during the day. In winter some will be about during the day, but never in the summer months." 

"Then how is it that they flee away from a source of water?" Eomer asked, having overheard both the question and the answer." 

"They must have a base near this hidden lake," Aragorn mused. "They would not have lingered until dawn unless they were near a place of refuge. And there they would have stored water so that the heat would not sap their strength." He fell silent for a moment and then shook his head. "In truth, it matters not, for we will depart this evening once the sun sets, and they will not have the time to attack us again. Come. Let us seek our own shelter ere the sun rises higher." 

He started off and Gimli fell into step beside him while Eomer slowed Shade’s pace so that he would remain at their side. But only a few seconds later, the king of the Mark froze, cursed loudly, and then urged Shade forward. Responding to the suddenness of his master’s command, Shade reared and took off toward the camp, raising a cloud of dust in his wake that had Aragorn and Gimli coughing. 

"What have I always said concerning horses?" the dwarf wheezed, waving his hands in a futile effort to clear the air before him. 

"Peace," Aragorn ordered, shading his eyes and, despite the lingering cloud, attempting to seek out what had commanded Eomer’s attention. The dust was beginning to settle, but Aragorn could still not see what had caused his friend to respond in such a manner. Perhaps… 

And then he saw it. With a soft gasp, he started to run, heedless of Gimli’s demands for an explanation. When the dwarf’s voice stopped suddenly to be replaced by hurrying feet, Aragorn knew Gimli had seen for himself what had happened. Praying that they would not arrive too late, the king of Gondor increased his pace and shot toward the camp like an arrow released from a tight bow. And behind him, merciless and unforgiving, the sun climbed higher into the sky, uncaring of anything that played out on the parched desert land beneath its fiery gaze. 

* * * *

Legolas pulled an arrow from his quiver and sighted along its smooth shaft, listening to the sounds of pounding hooves and running feet. As an archer, he was used to having slightly more time to prepare if an enemy was sighted from afar, and he knew well how to use such time. Examining the tent where even now most of the horses of Gondor were housed, he judged his bow would be of most use one hundred yards in front of the tent. After measuring this, he turned to the desert and gauged the distance. The attacking raiders were still too far away for his bow, but he fit an arrow to it anyway. The moment one did come within range, he would be ready. 

"What chaos goes forth this night?" someone demanded behind him. "The sun is near to rising!" 

The elf glanced over his shoulder, though he had already identified the speaker, and narrowed his eyes. "Can you not see for yourself? We are under attack." 

"Forgive Fastahn," a new voice said. Dashnir came forward, his sword already drawn and his eyes glittering darkly in the fading starlight. "The people of the Soltari tribe are but farmers and traders. They know nothing of raids or defense." 

Fastahn bristled slightly at this insult, but Garat moved forward then and placed a heavy hand on Fastahn’s shoulder. "Step back," he said quietly. There was a flash of metal and two knives appeared in Garat’s hands, though from whence they had come even Legolas could not say with certainty. "This is the realm of the warrior, not the farmer," Garat murmured. "If you wish to be of assistance, watch the horses. See that they do not panic." 

"I am able to hold my own in battle," Fastahn declared indignantly. 

"But the horses do not know what goes forth," Garat reasoned, forcefully turning Fastahn around. "Come, someone must stay with them. If you know nothing else, you are at least aware of this much. The raiders shall try to drive them from the tents." 

Unable to counter this logic and aware that there was a danger to the horses, Fastahn grumbled a low curse in his own tongue and walked away. 

"So you are an archer, Prince Legolas?" Dashnir inquired, keeping his eyes on the Rohirrim as they drew nigh unto the coming raiders. 

"I am many things," Legolas answered, also refusing to take his eyes from desert. "In the case of war, I am first an archer. If need be, though, I am equally capable of taking up another weapon." 

Dashnir nodded and moved as if to speak, but then he stopped. The first line of the Rohirrim had met the raiders. Without slackening their speed, spears and swords gleamed in the starlight of predawn darkness. Cries could be heard and then the Rohirrim were through, sweeping to the left and beginning to turn a wide circle. 

"Why do they run?" Garat demanded, moving forward involuntarily. "They have unhorsed many of the raiders. Why do they not stop to finish the job?" 

"If you cannot guess, then watch," Legolas commanded, bringing his bow up to bear. It would not be long before his targets stumbled into range. His eyes followed the figures in the desert closely as Aragorn, Gimli, and the forces of Gondor met with the raiders, and the elf’s sharp ears could hear the clashing of swords. 

"They seek to confuse them," Garat said, finally grasping the gist of Aragorn’s strategy. Legolas discerned a reluctant admiration in the man’s voice, and he wondered why it was so difficult to express praise. "Rohan shall attack the flank as it circles back," Garat continued, thinking through the plan of attack. "But I see a danger. In the confusion, many of the raiders will be forced through Gondor’s men and be free to attack the camp." 

"Which is why I was left here," Legolas explained, drawing the string back on his bow. The Rohirrim would complete their circle soon. He glanced quickly at Dashnir and Garat, noting their position in relation to the tent that he’d been tasked with protecting. It was then that he came to a sudden realization. "Where is the remainder of your delegation?" the elf asked sharply, looking about the camp. "You and Garat are here, Fastahn has gone back to the horses, but that leaves five unaccounted for." 

"You are right. They are not all here, yet where they are I cannot say," Dashnir answered quietly. 

At this statement, Legolas’s elven senses flared to life, detecting a false note in Dashnir’s voice. But what cause would the man have for deceiving the elf about something like this? The horses of the delegation were also in danger. Or were they? The elf frowned as he thought about this. Deciding to follow his nagging suspicions, the prince began to formulate possible explanations even as he continued to watch the battle in the desert. What if this raid was not the work of rogue tribes but something larger? What if the delegation itself was responsible in part? But if that were so, then why would Dashnir and Garat be fighting beside him? They were the two most likely to instigate such an attack, at least to the elf’s mind. Legolas shook his head, trying to make some sense out of what appeared to be madness. 

"Some of the delegation went to patrol the western desert, for raiders are known to frequent the seashore," Dashnir was saying, "but I do not think they all left. Certainly if they knew of this attack they would be here." 

The elf narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing, instead considering the situation. Dashnir was hiding something, that much was obvious. And a quick glance at Garat revealed that he was also hiding something. But what would they be hiding? And how would it tell on the outcome of this battle? He looked again into the desert and saw that the Rohirrim were seconds away from the rearguard of the raiders. The men of Gondor were hard-pressed but holding their own for now. That would all change in a moment, and Legolas tensed, waiting for the raiders to be split, sundered, and driven. 

With Eomer in the lead, Rohan’s riders hit the raiders in the back with all the force of an angry ocean. Unable to face the attacking war-horses or the hale men who could master such creatures, the raiders stumbled forward, preferring to face the foot soldiers from Gondor. But the Rohirrim pressed hard and fast, and most were driven beyond even Gondor’s forces. Realizing they were trapped behind a host of fierce defenders and before an encampment in which were housed horses, most raced toward the tents by the lake. 

This was what Legolas had been waiting for. Not that he had looked forward to this with great anticipation, but he had been expecting it and so waiting for it. In truth, he had never been great fan of battles. He was a capable enough warrior as far as elven standards went, which put him above most warriors from other Races, and in archery he was almost unequaled. But the social status and favors granted renowned soldiers among his people had never held much importance for Legolas. His father did not understand this and had pushed his youngest son harder in the study of battle as a result, thinking that if Legolas triumphed on the field he would come to understand the value of a warrior. But though Legolas had enjoyed many victories and though he had mastered the craft of wielding almost every weapon his father could find to place before him, he still gave his love to the peace of the forests and the solace of the trees. Perhaps that was why the bow and arrow had become his chosen weapons. Somewhat removed from the immediate battle, archery was a way of detaching himself from the realities of war and dealing necessary death in a quick and kindly fashion, if such a thing could be said of killing. 

So murmuring a quick prayer to Elbereth and stealing himself against the battle that was about to come to him, Legolas decided on his primary targets and fired. His first arrow sang through the air, arcing gracefully in seeming mockery of its deadly intent and descending into the throat of the first raider. The elf’s second arrow was released before his first arrow actually struck and a second raider went down, mortally wounded. Arrows three and four were shot simultaneously at a pair of raiders and they hit the desert floor not knowing what demon had felled them. Legolas managed to fire off four more arrows before the bulk of the raiders reached the camp’s perimeter, and after that, he quickly changed his strategy. 

Keeping his bow in his left hand, his long silver-hafted knife appeared in his right, and he lunged toward a raider who drew too close, ducking the spray of blood that followed his attack. He swung his bow outward and tripped up yet another raider while he whirled and caught a third raider before the man could get behind him. Sensing a momentary lull, Legolas pulled an arrow from his quiver and quickly shot an advancing attacker with deadly accuracy. Then it was back to knife work, and the elf slid to one side of a sword thrust and allowed the force of the attack to carry the man straight onto the point of his knife. Pushing the dying man off the blade, Legolas seized the sword that had threatened his life, sheathed his knife, and headed back into battle. 

Dashnir and Garat were fighting back to back, taking on any that drew close and dealing swift death to all who dared oppose them. Legolas started to fight his way toward the two, seeking to join them in mutual defense, but a sudden surge in the number of raiders made it difficult. Glancing into the desert, he saw that part of the Rohirrim had broken away from the main battle and were racing back to the encampment to aid them. Their help would be greatly appreciated when it arrived, but in the meantime, it was hastening the raiders and giving Legolas, Dashnir, and Garat many potential attackers. 

"Legolas!" 

The elf jerked his head in the direction of his name, ducking beneath a sweeping club at the same time, and saw Dashnir waving urgently. 

"Legolas, we must stand together." 

The elf sighed and slammed his sword hilt into a man’s face, jumping back as the raider fell forward. Standing together was easier said than done, for it involved being together, and at the moment, with several raiders between himself and Dashnir and Garat, being together was not possible. 

"If you can cut a path through this field, you are more than welcome to join me," Legolas eventually replied, blocking a staff with his bow and reversing his sword so that the man rushing behind him fell on its point. 

It was then that the Rohirrim arrived. The proud steeds of the Mark swept through on either side of Legolas and the raiders scattered before them. Breaking away from the few attackers who remained, Legolas managed to join Dashnir and Garat who were also given a reprieve from the battle. 

"Your forces fight well," Garat said, his tone somewhat reluctant. He turned eastward and looked into the desert where there was still much fighting and sighed, relief evident in his voice. "They will disperse soon." 

"How do you know this?" Legolas asked, driving his borrowed sword into the sand and pulling an arrow from his quiver. 

"Because of that," Dashnir answered, nodding to the east. And as he said these words, the sun appeared above the horizon, shooting its glaring rays into the morning and warning all of the heat that was to come. 

The rising of the sun seemed to be a signal for the raiders, and they shouted and pointed, trying to establish order in chaos. But the Rohirrim continued to attack and eventually the raiders broke with all established protocol and fled, knowing that if they did not seek shelter soon, they would be condemned to a painful death in the deadly heat of the day. 

"And so we are welcomed into Harad," Legolas murmured, firing one last arrow at the fleeing raiders. He watched them for a moment more, considering the purpose of the attack, and then his elven senses abruptly cried out in warning. 

Knowing that no danger lay before him, Legolas spun around to counter whatever threatened him from behind, but he did not spin fast enough. A hard metal hilt slammed into the side of his head and the light of day began to fade. Dimming elven eyes filled with both anger and confusion tried to make out the face of his attacker, and they ultimately came to rest on Dashnir’s smirking face as he caught the sagging elf in his arms and lowered him to the sand. Legolas tried to cry out, to sound some kind of alarm, but he could no longer control his body and the day was growing ever darker. A shadow fell across his mind and blocked his sight and his coherency. The elf struggled valiantly, but he felt someone move above him and then another blow connected with his head. The surrounding world vanished, and Legolas fell into darkness. 


	8. The Shadows Lengthen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Gimli’s breath was coming hard in the dry desert air, but he ignored it, forcing his legs to pump faster as he raced after Aragorn. The sun burned against his back and he could feel his corselet of metal rings begin to gather heat from the intense rays. It would be a hot day, but at the moment, it could turn into an oven for all that the dwarf cared. One thing only loomed in his mind and that was the image of Legolas lying motionless in the sand, surrounded by gathering Rohirrim.

Aided by longer legs, Aragorn had drawn quite far ahead and even now was pushing through the men and horses that blocked his passage. Gimli heard him call out commands and the men immediately parted, knowing of the deep friendship that ran between Gondor’s king and Ithilien’s elven prince. The dwarf hoped the men would stay parted long enough for him to join Aragorn at Legolas’s side, but this was rather wishful thinking on his part. As soon as the king of Gondor rushed through, the men closed back in again, curious and anxious. There were some minor wounds among them, but the camp’s defense had been so effective that neither Gondor nor Rohan had lost any men in the battle. Legolas was the only one who had fallen, and the men wondered what could maim an elf and somehow bypass all else.

Reaching the outer layer of encircling men, Gimli skidded to a halt and evaluated the situation. There were times, and this was one of them, when he wished that Aulë had gifted the dwarves with greater height. Short stature had its uses, particularly in unexplored caverns and low mining tunnel ceilings, but when it came to dealing with other Races, hobbits alone consistently granted dwarves their full attention and respect. Men seemed to measure greatness by stature and too often dismissed dwarves as being weak because they were short. This opinion was usually changed quickly when the indignant dwarf attacked, but for some reason, the idea continued to prevail among men of lesser knowledge. As for the elves, they didn’t usually dismiss dwarves solely on the basis of height, but it was a focal point for the barbs and jibes that always seemed to fly whenever the two Races met. None of this is to say that Gimli wished to be taller. He was actually quite content with his height. It had served him well, and he saw no reason to desire a change, especially since said change was unattainable and the status quo worked anyway. But he did occasionally ponder the advantages of additional inches, and at times like these, he felt that perhaps an extra foot might not be such a bad idea.

However, he was not likely to grow an extra foot in the next few minutes, so Gimli fell back on a tactic he had honed and developed over many years of dealing with the men of Dale. To those around him, it was probably not the most pleasing of alternatives, but it never failed to garner results. Taking a deep breath, Gimli gathered the air near the top of his lungs, opened his mouth, and bellowed as only a dwarf can bellow.

"MOVE!"

Even before the conclusion of the shout, Gimli was reminded as to why he was usually hesitant to do this around warriors. Hands shot to sword hilts and all swung to stare at him, their eyes glittering with the fury and fervor of battle. Gimli hastily backed up, fearful of being spitted before the men of Gondor and Rohan learned their mistake. He had little ground for concern, though, as these men were chosen because they were the best in their country, and it didn’t take the capable soldiers long to pinpoint the author of the shout. Realizing who it was they were confronting, a few offered sheepish smiles, some looked offended, and still others were just confused.

But at least now, Gimli had their complete attention. He folded his arms across his chest, fixed them with a baleful stare, and tapped his foot impatiently. The smiles grew larger, the looks of annoyance became slightly more annoyed, and the confused men persisted in their confusion. But a way did open up, and Gimli was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when this gift horse would take him to Legolas. Hurrying forward, he shoved aside the few men who had not moved and raced toward the elf.

"How is he?" he demanded, stopping just before slamming into Aragorn’s kneeling form.

"He appears unscathed, but there are two growing lumps on the side of his head," Aragorn said quietly. He had raised the unconscious elf into a sitting position and Legolas was now propped against the king’s side, completely oblivious to the outside world.

Eomer was on the elf’s other side, but he quickly stood and moved aside so that Gimli could have access. The dwarf shot him a grateful grin, thanking him for both the gesture and the fact that he had not vocally offered to stand back. It was common knowledge that Gimli and Legolas were nearly inseparable friends, but any public displays of that friendship had always made the dwarf rather self-conscious. It was not that he was ashamed of his friendship, but within dwarven culture, sentimental actions were seen as something of a weakness unless they took place on the battlefield where one friend might give his life for another. But when the friend yet lived, grave concern was generally frowned upon, especially since it served as a distraction from other duties.

Kneeling beside Legolas, Gimli pressed two fingers against the elf’s pale neck and sighed as he confirmed for himself that his friend’s heart continued to beat. But the pulse seemed fast to the dwarf, and he looked questioningly at Aragorn, hoping to receive a comforting explanation.

"He has suffered a mild head injury," Aragorn replied, correctly interpreting the dwarf’s gaze. "A faster pulse is to be expected. Here, support him for me. He should not lie on sand made cold by the desert’s night." Aragorn shifted Legolas toward Gimli, and the dwarf, feeling rather awkward with whole arrangement, nevertheless maneuvered so that his broad shoulder supported the elf’s lolling head and the prince’s back rested against his chest. With a nod of approval, Aragorn then stood and turned, searching the crowd for the man he’d seen catch Legolas as the elf fell. It did not take long to find him, and he fixed this man with a narrow-eyed stare that plainly bespoke his suspicion. "How did this happen, Dashnir?"

Dashnir glanced toward the elf as though startled that he had been implicated. Watching the proceedings from the sand, Gimli bristled silently. Something about that man rang false.

"It was unexpected, to be certain," Dashnir said, his voice taking on an incredulous tone. "The raiders had all but fled, and the Rohirrim were driving them. It was then that Legolas turned and…I cannot truly describe to you what happened. He fell. I caught him before he could hit the sand, but then he lost consciousness."

"And what had you to do with his fall?" Eomer asked. In truth, he was feeling slightly guilty. He had seen Legolas, Garat, and Dashnir standing together as the last of the raiders fled the camp, and believing that all was well, he had looked away and watched the light of the sun spread out over the desert and paint the sand a golden color. Then he had looked back to see Legolas slump and Dashnir catch him. Garat had moved before both of them, then, blocking Eomer’s view, but the king of the Rohirrim had seen enough. His close friend and companion was down, and he had spurred Shade forward with a suddenness that took the _Mearas_ chief by surprise.

"I?" A sound of outrage could now be heard in Dashnir’s voice. "If you think that I struck him down, you are gravely mistaken. He fell and I caught him. In no way have I physically assaulted your companion."

"An elf does not crumple without cause," Aragorn said, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you know what happened? If I remember correctly, you were standing right next to him." Like Eomer, Aragorn had been watching something else just ere Legolas fell. His attention had been on the departing raiders and something about them had caught his eye, but then Eomer’s sudden departure had drawn his attention back to the camp.

"He may have been struck during the course of battle," Dashnir said thoughtfully. "And I have seen men suffer blows to the head and shake them off because of more pressing concerns, but when such concerns are past, the injury takes its toll and they fall."

Gimli cursed quietly and muttered angrily beneath his breath. He had actually seen this same thing occasionally in dwarves where the effects of a blow to the head might be temporarily delayed, but it was a very rare occurrence and not so much a product of the actual head wound as it was a product of stress and fatigue. Legolas would have no cause to be either stressed or fatigued. Dashnir was hiding something. There was something that he was not telling them. But what?

The dwarf was relieved to see a rather dubious expression on Aragorn’s face, but the king of Gondor seemed to decide that this conversation was not worth pursuing. With a shake of his head, he turned away and moved back toward Legolas. And then he stopped, his dark eyes sweeping over the encampment. "Where is the rest of the delegation?" he asked after a moment of uneasy silence.

"Fastahn is just outside this group," Garat answered, nodding at the Soltari tribe representative who had just emerged from the horse tent. "Dashnir and I are here. As for the rest, I cannot say."

"Bron spoke of leading them on a scouting expedition, honored one," Dashnir said, his face taking on a contemplative appearance. "But his words to me ere departing were terse and clipped. He did not offer much in the way of information."

Aragorn’s steady gaze locked onto Dashnir’s eyes and held them, searching the man for a sign of falsehood or deception. Eventually, Aragorn broke off the contact, but to Gimli’s eyes, he looked as though he had learned nothing of value. "We will speak of this later," Aragorn promised as he moved to Legolas’s side. "For now, let us all retire to our tents," he continued, raising his voice so that he addressed his men as well. "Night will come sooner than you may think, and we must be well-rested."

Heeding his words, the men surrounding them began to disperse, and Aragorn beckoned Eomer over. Looking just as skeptical as the king of Gondor, Eomer moved forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He does not lie, I can sense that much, but neither does he tell the full truth."

"I feel the same," Aragorn said, kneeling once more next to the unconscious elf. "But we cannot pursue our misgivings now. The day grows hotter and we must tend to Legolas." Easing the elf away from Gimli while the dwarf reluctantly moved back, Aragorn slipped one arm behind Legolas’s back and another beneath his legs. Lifting the elf off the ground, Aragorn rose to his feet and sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Come. He will be better off in the tent."

"Shall I see if I can procure more water for him?" Gimli asked.

"Not now," Aragorn cautioned. "Perhaps at midday we shall venture out for water. It will depend upon how hot the sun grows, but we cannot go now. Acquiring additional water is a blatant violation of Harad custom and law, and if we must do so, we shall have to do it when nothing else in this desert stirs."

"Aragorn…"

Aragorn and Gimli both turned to Eomer who was watching the desert intently. Across the sand galloped five horses, bearing five riders back to the small encampment. Gimli hissed and his hands unconsciously strayed to the haft of his axe. Aragorn cut him a swift look of warning and Eomer rested one hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, trying to impart to him the need for caution.

"Eomer, take him," Aragorn said quietly, turning and shifting Legolas away from his body. Eomer held out his arms and received the elf, but he kept his eyes on the king of Gondor, obviously curious. "Get him inside and make him comfortable," Aragorn instructed. "Remove his outer vest, loosen the collar of his tunic, and put one of the water skins on his brow. I will join you shortly."

"And what is your purpose until then?" Eomer asked, his glance straying to the five Haradrim riders.

"I intend to search for answers." Aragorn then looked at Gimli and his jaw tightened imperceptibly. "If you would, my friend, I think you should accompany Legolas. Your presence may give him much needed comfort and rouse him from his dreams."

"By that, you mean to say that you fear I would do something foolish while confronting the wayward members of the delegation," Gimli said, his eyes glinting with a strange combination of irritation and amusement. He held up his hand when Aragorn started to interrupt and shook his head. "You are right, Aragorn. I think my temper might rule my actions if I were to stay out here. But there was no need for you to speak around this."

"Forgive me, Gimli," Aragorn said, a small smile appearing on his face. "I have commanded men for so long that I forget how to speak to a dwarf. Allow me to rephrase my request. Would you accompany Legolas and Eomer into the tent? Now is the time for the diplomacy of man. The diplomacy of a dwarf might not be well received. And I do think that your presence might aid the elf."

"Then I bid you farewell for now," Gimli said, looking once into the desert and frowning. "Come, Eomer. This sun grows too hot for me."

Eomer hesitated a bit, obviously wanting to conduct his own interrogation, but the king of Gondor shook his head firmly. "You will hear a full retelling of all that transpires," Aragorn promised. "See to Gimli and Legolas. They need you more than I do."

"As you command," Eomer said reluctantly. He shifted the elf in his arms so that he was better supported and turned away, following the dwarf who was waiting for him expectantly. After watching the two until they reached the main tent and ducked inside, Aragorn gathered his mental faculties and strode away from the camp toward the riders who had now almost reached Lake Supt. It was time for answers.

* * * *

Prince Imrahil leaned over his table and contemplated the report on the granaries in the western province of Dol Amroth. Thieves seemed to be making daily raids into his storehouses, but as of yet, no armed guard had managed to catch them. The prince was beginning to wonder if this might not be the result of a conspiracy among his men. He was reluctant to consider the idea, but it seemed to be the only logical explanation. It was either that or someone else was far too knowledgeable on the inner workings of his kingdom.

"It is too early in the morning for this," the prince mumbled, glancing out the window at the ocean waves that broke constantly against the shoreline. The newly risen sun reflected off the swirling blue water and further out, Imrahil’s keen eyes spotted a spray of water shoot upwards from a surfacing whale. There were times when he wished he could be as the dolphins and whales that frolicked in those great waters. Theirs was a world that needed no management. They were born, they learned what was needful, and they took their life in whatever direction they desired to, free from the constraints and bindings that a man might encounter. They knew what it was to simply live. Sometimes, man seemed to forget this.

With a sigh, the prince shook his head. His wandering thoughts were not saving his people’s grain, and the sea held no answers for him this day. Standing, he pushed his high-backed chair away and stretched, easing the kinks out of his spine. Moving toward the wall where a large flask of wine rested, he found a cup and poured himself a drink. Perhaps he should have taken more nourishment at breakfast, but at the time, he’d had no stomach for food. His night’s rest had been troubled by ominous dreams, and even now his mind turned to ponder them. Much of the nightmares’ substance had been lost and he could not now remember them in their entirety, but he did clearly recall certain elements. A black cloud rose from the east, very similar in nature to the blackness of Mordor that overshadowed the western lands ere the Battle of the Pelennor fields. From this darkness came fell voices, crying out in a tongue Imrahil had recognized as the language of Harad. It seemed his mind had flashed with the image of dying tree, cloaked in black, and then the white tree of Gondor sprang to mind, but it was burning and the smoke of its ashes rose to greet the gathering clouds.

"Ill portents, certainly," Imrahil whispered to himself. "Yet their meaning is not clear to me." The dreams had begun four days ago, starting on the night that Aragorn and his company had departed for Harad. He wondered now if he should have sent men after the king or perhaps gone himself to warn them, but without a clear interpretation of his nightmares, he dared not. The nightmares might signal a sudden attack on Gondor in Aragorn’s absence, and in that event, the armies of Dol Amroth would be needed in the north, not the south. But what if the dreams signified a danger to Aragorn himself? Could he ride into Harad and somehow prevent it?

"Sire?"

Imrahil whirled in surprise, for he had not heard the door to his private study open. His flashing gray eyes lit upon the captain of his guard, and the man seemed to falter in the wake of the prince’s anger. Realizing this reaction was uncalled for, Imrahil quickly schooled his feelings and his eyes softened. "What is it?"

"Sire, the healer desires your presence in Mohart’s chambers. Mohart has become coherent and is insisting that he must speak with you. He will not be restrained and…" The guard suddenly trailed off and turned around, obviously startled by something. Confused, Imrahil stepped forward so that the outer hall shifted into his view.

"Mohart?" he questioned.

The representative from the Gartabo tribe staggered down the hallway, clad only in a sheet, and slumped against a wall. "Where…where is he?" the man panted, clearly out of breath.

Imrahil stepped forward, his confusion mounting, and then stopped as the running figure of the healer hurried into the scene.

"Forgive me, sire, for I did not think he would try to leave his room," the healer said quickly, taking hold of Mohart’s arm and supporting the man. "We will not bother you further."

"Hold," Imrahil commanded, his mind working quickly. Piercing gray eyes that at times took on seemingly elven qualities studied the sagging form of Mohart. Recalling the images from his dream and wondering if perhaps Mohart might aid him in his search for explanations, Imrahil left the study and walked into the hall, moving to Mohart’s side. "You said you wished to speak with me," he said, his voice low and soothing.

Mohart nodded, but his strength failed him and he slid to the floor despite the efforts of the healer to keep him upright. Imrahil stepped forward and waved the healer back. He knelt beside sickened man and grasped his shoulder, hoping to impart some of his strength.

"Mohart." Imrahil’s stern tone drew the man’s eyes to his own. "Mohart, you must concentrate. What is it you wished to tell me?"

"Where is Dashnir?" Mohart gasped, the pallor of his face taking on a greenish tone as a wave of nausea swept through him.

"He departed four nights ago, leading your delegation," Imrahil explained, watching the man closely for his reaction to this news. "King Elessar of Gondor and King Eomer of Rohan accompanied him."

"No!" Mohart surged forward and seized Imrahil by the front of his jerkin. Guards along the hallway rushed forward, but the prince’s raised hand stopped them from interfering. "No," Mohart hissed again. "You must…stop him. If Khurintu gains control…darkness. Darkness over all."

"What is this darkness you speak of?" Imrahil demanded, holding Mohart’s dark eyes with his own. "How can it be stopped?"

But Mohart had exhausted his strength in coming this far and speaking this much. He tried to answer the prince, but his eyes rolled back before he could do so and he slumped into the realm of the unconscious. Imrahil shook him, calling urgently, but the man made no response. Realizing there was nothing more he could do at the moment, Imrahil rose and stepped back, his mind going over all that he had heard.

"Tend to him," he said quietly, turning to the healer. "The moment he regains consciousness, send for me. I wish to speak with him again."

"As you command, sire," the healer said with a quick bow. He glanced at the surrounding guards and motioned two of them forward. "Help me, if you would," the healer instructed. "We must return him to his room."

Leaving his men to their duties, Imrahil walked back into his study and closed the door. With a frustrated sigh, he leaned back against the comforting strength of the dark oak and rubbed his temples. It seemed the mystery deepened, and instead of answers, he was now left with more questions. Why was Mohart so concerned about Dashnir? Was it a simple question of power balancing between two tribes or something much darker than political maneuvering? And how could he act until he knew what he acted against?

"May the Valar protect you, King Elessar," Imrahil whispered as a feeling of utter helplessness washed over him much as the sea washed over the rocks in the harbor. "I shall continue the search for answers here, but I fear that for now, I cannot aid you. You are on your own, my king."

* * * *

Hidden within the sanctuary of a small tent, Dashnir reclined on his pallet of stacked carpets and groaned slightly, allowing his discomfort to surface now that only two others were near. He had been taxed almost beyond endurance that morning, and it would take the remainder of the day for his strength return. Never before had he forced the shadow over an elven mind, and he had not anticipated how much it would cost him. He was still uncertain as to whether or not this would work. For all he knew, Legolas might wake in the afternoon and shrug it off as though it was but a passing dream. _A field of possibilities over which I have no control_ , Dashnir reflected bitterly. _And still I agonize over them when I should be resting_.

"I lost many men today," a voice said, and Dashnir thought he could detect a plaintive tone. "You did not warn me of their fighting prowess, and my riders were not equipped to deal with it. Nor did you warn me that Aragorn would interrogate us when we returned from scouting the desert. I have no wish to be suspect in his mind. He is a dangerous man!"

"Your men are but children, Bron," another voice shot back. "The Portu tribe knows nothing of war. If a caravan fights back, your raiders scatter as dust in a sandstorm. And as for Aragorn, I did not know with certainty what his reaction would be. But you certainly share in the guilt, and so you should share in some of the punishment. And if you cannot stand up to his questions, that is no fault of mine. It is merely a reflection on the pathetic abilities of the Portu tribe as a whole. I still wonder how it is that you and your men have survived so long in Harad when you have such inadequate skills."

"You did not think so little of my tribe when you and Dashnir forced me into this arrangement," Bron said indignantly. "As I recall your words, you stated that my tribe was the only tribe capable of carrying out this attack with any hope of success. Or did the honorable Garat lie?"

"I did not lie," Garat said, his voice chilling to the temperature of ice. "Your horse raiders were the only ones with any hope of success. That is still true to some extent, though their numbers are now greatly diminished. But you did not ask me how great the hope of success was, and since you did not ask, I did not answer."

"And what if I had asked?"

"If you had asked, I would have honestly informed you that there was very little chance in successfully stealing the horses of Gondor and Rohan. But you showed your shortsightedness in failing to ask and so exposed the same weakness that brought you under my power."

"That is another matter about which I wish to speak," Bron said, his voice rising in anger. "When shall my tribe be allowed access to the hidden lakes again? How shall you call your men off when they are leagues away and you rest here next to a source of water? For I have fulfilled my part of the bargain, and my tribe must be allowed access to the lakes and the wells. My people are dying!"

"Is that my concern? Your people are weak and the desert would be better off without them."

"You swore an oath to me that my tribe would be allowed to drink if they attacked this company!"

"Silence, both of you," Dashnir broke in, realizing he would get no rest until he settled the dispute between Bron and Garat. Raising himself up on an elbow, he studied the two men beneath his sway and frowned. "You would accuse us of failing in our oath?" he asked, directing his words toward Bron. "And if so, are you prepared to back that accusation with the sword?"

"I…" Bron trailed off and glanced uncertainly at Garat.

"No matter," Dashnir said with a heavy sigh that bespoke great weariness. "I have already dispatched the hawks. They will find the Warra tribe and Garat’s message to withdraw will be received by tonight. Your people can drink then. But I warn you, Bron," he continued, his eyes flashing dangerously, "do not challenge our honor again. There are worse things that could be done to your tribe, and I do not think you would want that. Remember that the hawks are still at hand and convey many messages. With a single bird, the Warra tribe can descend upon your horse raiders and wipe them from the desert."

"And know that my tribe never fails in its duty," Garat hissed.

"As for you," Dashnir said, turning his eyes to Garat, "those are bold words for a man who nearly failed this morning. The elf sensed your blow before it fell, and he almost turned in time to meet it. Nor did you strike hard enough, for it required a second blow to darken his eyes."

"My strikes do not go awry," Garat responded, stung by Dashnir’s criticism. "The first hit fell on his temple, and he should have fallen then. Why he did not is a question I cannot answer, but it was certainly no fault of mine. If you think you could have done better, then you should have been the one to down the elf."

"And I would have preferred to strike him myself had that been possible," Dashnir answered. "Your tribe is fierce in wars, Garat, but I fear that when stealth and discretion are required, you are sadly lacking in ability. But I could not have attacked the elf, for I was the one they questioned, and I needed the ability to answer truthfully so as to keep my honor."

"But you have already lost your honor," Bron sneered, seeing an opportunity to attack his hated blackmailers. "While still in Dol Amroth, you took the goblet meant for you and traded it for Mohart’s glass. When he fell and Aragorn demanded to know what had happened, you said you did not know what could have caused his illness. But you did know, else you would not have switched the cups."

"You gravely err, Bron, and you challenge my honor yet again," Dashnir hissed. "I sensed foul play, yes, and I sensed also that they had altered my drink, but I did not know the manner of poison and I still do not know. I spoke truthfully. His sudden illness is a mystery to me. My knowledge of potions does not include one that would attack so quickly and cause such symptoms but not kill its victim after a few minutes. And if you do not take care, Bron, I will see what I can do about getting such a potion and using it against the delegate from a certain tribe of horse raiders."

Bron fell silent at that, but he still simmered with anger and righteous indignation. Garat studied the man and then shook his head, disgusted by what he saw. "Pitiful," he spat, moving toward his own pallet and lying down.

"Hush," Dashnir commanded, closing his eyes and attempting to find sleep. He would need his strength for the night’s journey, and he would need the full use of his mental faculties if Legolas remembered what had happened to him. He already had several arguments ready, but to employ them effectively, he would need to rest. Dashnir listened carefully as Bron moved to his own pallet and lay down with a quiet huff, still upset. The man was a danger now that he’d fulfilled his obligation. He knew too much and would have to be eliminated, but not here and not now. It would look too suspicious. _Later_ , Dashnir promised himself. _Later will be soon enough_.

Listening a moment longer to ensure that Bron took no foolish actions, he finally relaxed and his mind began to drift into the darkness of his dreams. So far, his plan was moving quietly and successfully. He had learned how capable the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan were, he had forced a shadow into the elf’s mind and so eliminated a potential problem, he had temporarily diverted suspicion from himself, and he still controlled Bron and Garat. Even more than all this, Dashnir had learned of a fundamental weakness in his four main opponents. They possessed a loyalty for one another so great that it could be easily used against them should even one of their number be endangered. Perhaps the key to their ultimate undoing could be accomplished through the simplest of actions. The beginnings of a new direction for the great plan of reclamation started to take shape, and Dashnir licked his lips in excitement. He could already taste the beginnings of vengeance, and his master would be very pleased with his work. Letting visions of the fall of Gondor and the death of the heir of Isildur entertain his thoughts, Dashnir took his mind from the confines of the mortal world and gave himself up to sleep.

* * * *

"Tell me again what the delegation said," Eomer requested, watching as Aragorn checked Legolas’s pulse and wiped a wet cloth over the elf’s overhead. The temperature in their tent was rising to the point of becoming unbearable, but it was even hotter outside where Gimli had just returned from filling a spare water skin despite the strict laws governing water use in Harad.

"I think there is nothing new to be gained in the information, Eomer, but if you wish it, I will relate it," Aragorn sighed. "According to the delegation, they left almost as soon as they had pitched their tents and followed Bron on a scouting mission. Bron said he knew of some raiding camps that frequented the area, and he wished to find out if they were still about and whether or not they posed a threat."

"And you feel they spoke the truth?"

"I feel that most of them spoke the truth as they knew it," Aragorn said, standing and walking away from Legolas. He moved to Eomer and studied the king of Rohan carefully. "To my mind, Bron was aware of more than he revealed, but since the day was growing warm, I did not think it wise to continue questioning him."

"Perhaps we should seek him out now," Gimli suggested from his position next to Legolas. Apart from going to fetch more water, the dwarf had not left his friend’s side since entering the tent, and if the situation had not been so serious or danger so near, Aragorn and Eomer might have found the dwarf’s actions to be highly amusing. "Bron might have much to contribute in the way of unraveling this riddle," he continued, "and if that is the case, I wish to confront him myself."

"If Bron is at all wise, he will be resting now and would be justifiably offended if we woke him," Aragorn explained. "And we would be wise to follow his example. The day will only grow hotter and ‘tis better if we are unaware of the scorching sun. Of the four of us, Legolas shows the most sense at the moment."

"But is it safe to sleep when we have such doubts?" Eomer pressed. "Who knows but what we may be attacked when we are unawares."

"If such a thing happens, then there will be little we can do about it anyway," Aragorn said. "Any who attack during the heat of the day will be hardy beyond the measure of any we have ever encountered save perhaps the Balrog in Moria. We, on the other hand, will wither beneath the sun’s rays and lie helpless before our attackers."

"If you both wish to rest, I will watch the elf," Gimli spoke up. Sweat was beginning to collect in his beard and it was clear that the day was telling on his strength, but he could not sleep until he knew that with certainty that Legolas was recovering. He didn’t say this, of course, but it was not hard to discern from the worry he tried vainly to keep from his face.

"I will sit with you, son of Gloin," Aragorn said. "I have need of thought, in any case, for something I saw during the attack has caught my attention and I do not think I shall be able to sleep until its mystery has been solved. Eomer, though, would be wise to heed your words."

"How shall I sleep when you are both awake?" Eomer asked. "I would not have it said that I sought rest while my comrades kept watch."

"Honor is one thing, Eomer, but foolishness is another," Aragorn said, his tone gentle but his words firm. "To stay up when there is no need is unwise. I counsel you to take what rest you can."

Eomer’s eyes narrowed. "And what of you? Gimli has offered to watch the elf, and we could even arrange a watch of sorts, yet you are waiting up with him. What of your own need for sleep, Aragorn? Is that not also foolishness?"

A flash of anger appeared briefly in Aragorn’s eyes and things might have gone ill had not a soft moan beside Gimli suddenly broken into the conversation. Two men and a dwarf turned as another groan, barely audible, emerged from Legolas. His fair head rolled to the side and he shifted slightly. Aragorn pushed past Gimli and seized the damp cloth he’d been using earlier. Wiping the elf’s brow clear of the sweat that beaded in response to the day’s heat, he spoke softly, urging the prince to wake completely.

"Legolas!" Gimli whispered, lending his voice to Aragorn’s efforts. "Legolas, open your eyes. Elves do not sleep with their eyes closed. Do you seek to copy the dwarves?"

"I think you did it, Gimli," Eomer observed with a hint of a smile. Legolas was now moving restlessly and Aragorn had left off wiping his brow and now held his arms down should the elf begin to flail or convulse. He did not think this would happen as the head injury did not seem that severe, but one could never truly tell and the effects of the desert’s heat was something about which Aragorn was rather unsure.

But his concerns proved unfounded. Legolas’s movements ceased, the elf relaxed, and his eyes fluttered open. Gimli let out an audible sigh of relief and Aragorn felt some of his anxiety lift. "You gave us cause for concern, my friend," Aragorn said softly. "How do you feel?"

The elf closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again, frowning as he did so. His glance flickered briefly over Gimli and Eomer before coming to rest on Aragorn. There was something off about Legolas’s gaze, but the king of Gondor could not say exactly what it was. Yet chills crept back into his spine, at odds with the scorching heat of the day.

"What happened?" the elf whispered, shaking his head slightly and wincing immediately after doing so.

"Easy," Gimli cautioned, laying a callused hand on the elf’s shoulder. "You took two nasty blows to the side of the head."

"What do you remember, Legolas?" Eomer asked. "Do you know how you came to be injured?"

The elf closed his eyes and his brow furrowed with concentration. It was a while before he spoke, and his words brought no answers. "I remember that we were beset by horse thieves," he said quietly. "Your riders were driving them toward us, Eomer, and we were hard pressed on all sides. After that…" The elf trailed off and was silent a moment more before finally giving up and opening his eyes again. "I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything after that."

"Do you remember if you were hit in the head?" Gimli asked. "You didn’t fall until after the battle."

"I’ve told you all I can remember," Legolas answered, clearly frustrated by his faulty memory. "I do not know how I came to be injured because all details currently escape me. It’s as if…" He trailed off and frowned.

"It is no matter," Aragorn broke in quickly. "And since we are now assured of Legolas’s welfare, I suggest we all retire. The day will pass easier that way, and Legolas especially could do with the extra rest."

"A moment, if you would," Legolas said, trying to rise. "I…I need fresh air."

"There is little fresh air in this heat," Gimli protested, pushing the elf back down. "And Aragorn is right. You need rest."

"No, I…I wish to look outside. Just for a moment. After that I will rest."

Aragorn frowned and studied the elf, once more receiving the distinct impression that something about him was wrong. But as before, he could find nothing to either confirm or deny his suspicions, and without evidence, it was foolish to confront Legolas about it. "For just a moment, then," Aragorn said, relenting as it was obvious that the elf would not rest until he looked upon the outside world. He took the elf’s arm and pulled it over his shoulder, aiding Legolas in rising.

Much to his surprise, the elf did not resist his help and even leaned slightly against him, allowing Aragorn to take the bulk of his weight. With mounting concern, Aragorn studied the elf once more as they began walking toward one of the two tent flaps. Gimli and Eomer trailed behind, also confused by Legolas’s lack of protest. The prince was loathe to receive assistance, and yet here he made no mention of it.

Reaching out with his free hand, Aragorn pulled the ten flap aside and winced as a blast of searing heat rushed over his face. He heard Gimli grunt in annoyance behind him, and Eomer backed up slightly, but Legolas seemed drawn forward. His bright gray eyes stared into the glaring desert, heedless of the sunlight that blasted off the sand and made sight next to impossible. After a few more moments, Legolas began to stiffen as though terrified and Aragorn quickly let the tent flap fall, more concerned than ever. "What did you see?"

For a long time, Legolas did nothing and Aragorn feared the blow to his head was more serious than he’d first thought, but eventually, the elf turned to him. His eyes were wide and within their depths was an element of fear that Aragorn had never thought to see in one of the Eldar.

"Legolas?" he whispered, lowering his voice so that Gimli and Eomer could not hear their conversation. "Legolas, _man prestidh den_?"

It took quite a while for Legolas to answer, and Aragorn feared he would not, but the horror within the elf could not be contained and at last he confided in the man who had been raised in Rivendell and knew more of elves than any other mortal in Middle Earth save Arwen. " _San cenedn_ ," Legolas murmured, his voice stricken as though he suffered from a fatal wound. " _Ú-cenidh athan a cened o firiath. Edhellen gûlmaeth nîn danna nin_!"

Aragorn drew back in surprise at these words, but he said nothing, not knowing what to make of this revelation. Cleared throats behind elf and man reminded the king that they were not alone and that Eomer and Gimli knew something was happening. "Perhaps rest will heal all," Aragorn said, switching into Westron for the benefit of the other two. "The night may bring new tidings, and all things can be discussed ere we depart."

Legolas swallowed hard and the muscles in his jaw tightened, but he had no choice other than to accede to Aragorn’s advice. Allowing himself to be led back to the stacked carpets that served as his bed, he sank down and barely registered the fact that Aragorn was maneuvering him into a more comfortable position.

" _Hodo_ , Legolas," Aragorn said gently, ignoring the questioning looks of Gimli and Eomer. " _Peditham abonnen_."

The elf sighed and dipped his head in lieu of a nod. Knowing there was nothing to be done at the present time, he quickly lost himself in the strange paths of elvish dreams, wishing to leave the real world and the shadow that seemed to have drawn a veil over his superior sight.

"Let us follow his example," Aragorn said wearily, rising and turning to Eomer and Gimli.

"But what did he—"

"It is not my place to tell you, Gimli," Aragorn interrupted. "But it is my hope that Legolas will speak more tonight. Until then, we must rest."

There was a note of finality in Aragorn’s voice that could not be questioned, and Eomer and Gimli reluctantly nodded and turned away, seeking their own rest. Aragorn did likewise, but his mind was now more troubled than ever. If Legolas spoke truly, then something had been done to the elf that had not been done since the Second Age. Aragorn had not thought such sorcery still existed in Middle Earth, but it seemed he was wrong. And with these dark thoughts shadowing his mind, the king of Gondor drifted into uneasy dreams, vaguely aware that on the other side of the tent, Legolas was beginning to moan and toss in his sleep.

 

__

Man prestidh den?—What troubles you?

__

San cenedn—It is my sight

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Ú-cenidh athan a cened o firiath. Edhellen gûlmaeth nîn danna nin!—I cannot see beyond the sight of mortals. My elven senses are failing me! (I had to kind of combine a few Sindarin words to get that meaning, but most of it is authentic elvish. Sorry about that.)

__

Hodo—Lie still

__

Peditham abonnen—We will speak later


	9. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Eomer awoke feeling as though he’d fallen asleep next to one of the natural geysers on Rohan’s southwestern border. He had enough sweat in his light hair to fill a small wash basin, and his thin tunic and trousers were saturated with perspiration. With a feeling of disgust, Eomer raised himself into a sitting position and looked around the tent, trying to guess the time of day judging from the sunlight that filtered in through the thick fabric.

"We have two hours until sunset if that is what you wonder," a voice said, intruding upon his thoughts.

Eomer nodded, not bothering to question how it was that Aragorn seemed to know every thought that went through his head ere even he was aware of it. It was something he’d grown used to, and it now seemed natural that Aragorn should have a talent for reading minds. The king of Rohan stretched, grimacing at the trickles of moisture that meandered down his back. While he was not a finicky man and had endured many harsh campaigns where hygiene was not close to being of even secondary importance, Eomer did enjoy feeling that he was somewhat presentable and would not drive his enemies away by smell alone. _What does one do for a bath in this wasted land?_

"The desert cools rapidly once the sun hides her face," the king of Gondor continued. "You will feel more at ease then, but until that time, I fear you will have to endure this heat."

Eomer sighed and considered the merits of going back to sleep, but he was hot enough and uncomfortable enough that he wondered if such a thing could even be accomplished. He was a veteran warrior and had learned to take sleep when it could be found, but this extreme heat was something new. "Have you been up long?" he asked, turning his eyes to Aragorn.

"No, not long," came the rather vague reply. Eomer translated this answer to mean that Aragorn had been up for over an hour but that he’d slept for at least part of the day. This fit rather well with Eomer’s belief that Aragorn was a closet insomniac, a view also shared by Faramir, Legolas, and Imrahil. Arwen wouldn’t comment when asked and Gimli had declared it really didn’t matter how much sleep Aragorn had so long as he was able to function in the morning. Eomer supposed this was true, but he had a nagging fear that one of these days, all the countless nights of missed sleep would come crashing down on the king of Gondor with disastrous results.

But that day was probably still several years off, and so Eomer worried instead about adjusting his clothing in such a manner that it was not clinging to him with every movement. Aragorn looked up from something he’d been studying and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched Eomer pull his tunic away from his chest. "I take it that this land is not to your liking."

"If the Haradrim endure it, then so shall I," Eomer said with a confidence that he did not feel. Trivial concerns for cleanliness aside, Eomer was growing to dislike the desert with every passing minute. The heat seemed to make him weak and drowsy as though he were afflicted by a wasting disease that sapped his strength and left him helpless. He shuddered to think of what his horses had endured and hoped that they would be able to travel this night. Maybe more water could be procured for them. After all, Gimli had managed to sneak back with some for Legolas earlier.

A low moan and something akin to a whimper suddenly echoed through the tent, interrupting Eomer’s thoughts. Alarmed, the horse lord looked over to Legolas who was shifting his head from side to side and moving restlessly as though plagued by evil dreams. "What ails him?" Eomer asked quietly.

"I do not know," Aragorn answered, his voice equally quiet.

If Aragorn had said that Sauron had returned and was slowly turning Legolas into a dwarf, Eomer could not have been more alarmed. The king of Rohan did not respect Aragorn so much that he believed him to be infallible, but he did trust him to explain matters when situations turned dark. The fact that the heir of Isildur was at a loss for something was an idea that did not sit well with Eomer, particularly since he already distrusted this land and its people.

Getting to his feet, Eomer walked over to the elf and knelt by his side, brushing away strands of damp hair from Legolas’s forehead. A sheen of sweat glistened in the dim interior of the tent, and it was a small consolation to the king of Rohan that the hardy elf was also subject to the intense heat of Harad’s sun. Placing two fingers against the elf’s throat, Eomer timed the pulse and frowned. "His heart races as though he has just finished a hard race. Does he…" Eomer suddenly trailed off as Legolas moaned again and turned his head. After the elf fell quiet, Eomer continued. "Does he suffer from his head injury? I did not think it was this severe."

"It isn’t," Aragorn answered, standing and moving toward the two. "Something else troubles him, but I have yet to uncover what. We can only hope that Legolas himself will have answers when he wakes. In truth, I am worried that he does not wake now. Our voices should have roused him."

"And he always seems to know when he is the subject of a conversation, even while sleeping," Eomer added.

The two fell silent for a while, the stillness broken only by occasional moans, and then Aragorn spoke again. "Come. We can do nothing more for him until he wakes, and I would speak with you. I need your counsel on a matter that has troubled me since the raid this morning."

Aragorn seemed to be one surprise after another this afternoon. Brows raised at this request, Eomer said nothing but merely nodded silently, rising and following Aragorn over to his corner of the tent. The king of Gondor bent and picked up what appeared to be a swatch of fabric. Handing it to Eomer, he folded his arms and waited as if expecting revelation to strike him.

Deciding that he was probably expected to say something, Eomer turned the thick cloth over in his hands and studied it briefly. It was of a fine make and not dissimilar to the clothes worn by the Rohirrim. The fabric was stiff as a protection against the hazards of long periods of riding, but it was flexible enough to move and breathe should the wearer need to adjust his position quickly. It was a protection against cold breezes that might be incurred by high speeds, but it could also be cool, as spaces between the stitches were wide enough to let some air through.

"It is akin to the clothing of my people," Eomer eventually said. He looked questioningly at Aragorn. "Is this of some significance?"

"The fabric was taken from one of the fallen raiders. I seek your opinion on it."

"It is of good quality," Eomer said, unsure as to exactly what Aragorn was looking for. "He who wore this was often on the back of a horse."

"Can you see anything more?"

Turning his eyes back to the cloth, Eomer frowned and studied it yet again. There was something…familiar about it. The color was a deep blue, the result of an inexpensive dye, and that was something of a shame since this cloth took colors well and would be quite beautiful with a more exotic dye. "This was part of an item of necessity rather than an item of show," Eomer said, analyzing the material from a different angle. "It belonged to a man who had a need for durable clothing but who had no money to spend on elegant trimmings or trappings. A poor man’s clothes."

"The other raiders wore very similar garments," Aragorn said, watching Eomer carefully.

"A poor tribe, then," Eomer said. He looked at the material for a bit longer and then his frown deepened. "This…I have seen this before. I have seen this cloth before, but in a different style and a different color. Yet it is the same material and even, I believe, the same make."

"You are certain?"

"I cannot say from whence my memory recalls this, but I do recall it," the king of the Mark said firmly. "And it seems to me that I have seen this material only recently."

"As have I," Aragorn sighed. "Think of Bron. Does that suggest anything to you?"

"Bron," Eomer murmured, searching his mind. "Yes, Bron. His robes…his robes are made from this. But that would mean…" He trailed off and looked at Aragorn. "This could be coincidence. Perhaps this fabric is made throughout the desert and the raiders from this morning have no connection to Bron."

Aragorn shook his head. "No, this is a rare fabric that must be imported from Belfalas, and I wonder that I did not think to check it earlier. Many things that should be obvious to me are becoming clouded and I wonder…" He trailed off and glanced at Legolas before shaking his head. "I suppose it does not matter now as there is nothing to be done about it. But did you mark how the riders sat their horses?"

"Yes, that I did notice," Eomer said, thinking back to the specifics of the raid. "They rode further back in the saddle than I am accustomed to seeing. It was much like…" he sighed and shook his head. "Their riding was much like Bron’s style of riding." Eomer glanced at the cloth still in his hand and narrowed his eyes. "Why did neither of us see this earlier?"

"To that, I have no answer," Aragorn said quietly.

__

Twice in one evening, Eomer reflected with a frown. He wondered if the heat had affected Aragorn’s mind or if something else—something darker—was at work. "What reason would Bron have for attacking us?"

"Again, I have no answer."

Eomer grimaced and wondered if this was some sort of record for Aragorn. "Then if we are both at a loss for answers, we must turn to the source of the confusion, for there is much to be gained from simple questions of one who holds knowledge."

"You speak rightly, Eomer," Aragorn said, and a hard smile crept over his features. "Let us speak with Bron just ere we depart this night. There is much he did not tell us earlier."

* * * *

Gimli shrugged on his corselet of chain mail and tried to adjust it in such a way that it did not contribute more warmth to his already overheated body. The sun was moments away from setting, and it was significantly cooler now than it had been when the dwarf had awakened an hour earlier. But it was still far warmer than the Glittering Caves and arguably warmer than the hottest days of Rohan’s summers.

"Yet the men endure it better than I," the dwarf muttered angrily to himself. Aragorn and Eomer had left the tent half an hour ago to aid with packing the horses. And while it was clear that both suffered beneath the oppressive heat, neither one had spoken a word of complaint during the time Gimli had spent awake. It was a rather depressing phenomenon, and the dwarf promised himself that he would buckle down and find a way to suffer through this desert in a way that would make his dwarven ancestors proud.

Shoving his axe into his belt, Gimli smoothed out his beard, rolled his shoulders, and decided he was as prepared for the night’s ride as he could be. Having completed his own preparations, his eyes strayed to Legolas. The elf still slept, and though Gimli had vowed only a short while ago to someday rise before the elf did, he now wondered how such a thing had come to be. Aragorn and Eomer had both beaten the dwarf in rising, and Legolas usually woke when others began to stir. But on this evening, the elf’s three tent mates had all awakened, dressed, and prepared for the day without once drawing the attention of the elven prince.

And more than that, Gimli discerned that there was something wrong with the elf’s sleep. As usual, Legolas’s eyes were open, but the dwarf noticed tension in the elf’s lean frame that reminded him very much of a frightened cat poised to either pounce or flee. Shudders and occasional moans would disturb the elf’s sleep, and this was also unusual. Normally, Legolas was completely silent while resting. Gimli could recall only one other time when the elf’s dreams had been this troubled, and that was during the dark journey through Moria.

The tent flaps were suddenly drawn back and Gimli was startled from his thoughts by the arrival of Aragorn and Eomer. Both glistened with sweat and both were breathing hard in an attempt to cool their bodies. This brought a small measure of comfort to Gimli, who had begun to absently wonder if both men were not really disguised elves because of their ability to endure extreme temperatures.

"Do we depart soon?" he asked, wiping a few new drops of perspiration from his brow.

"Within the next half-hour, if that can be accomplished," Aragorn answered. "All that remains to be done is to pack the tents onto the baggage horses and refill the water skins." The king paused and looked to Legolas. "He still slumbers?"

"Not only that, but his sleep is filled with troubling dreams, or so I perceive," Gimli answered, furrowing his brow as he watched the elf. "What happened to him, Aragorn? What did he tell you that he did not tell us?"

"His secret is not mine to share," Aragorn answered reluctantly.

"But if we must look out for Legolas, it would be helpful to know what care we must take," Eomer said. "And if I know anything of that elf’s personality, he will not tell us himself."

"Perhaps not," Aragorn admitted. "But that does not mean I am at liberty to share what is not mine." The king shook his head, considered the sleeping prince, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Gimli, wake him. The time to leave draws near, and he may need a moment to compose himself. Eomer, let us find a certain delegate from the Portu tribe. The Haradrim will have finished their preparations, and they can no longer hide behind the excuse that they must spend their time packing rather than talking."

"Then let us go, but let us become clear upon one thing," Eomer said, looking sharply at Aragorn. "My riders were also involved in the defense of this camp, and if our suspicions are correct then Bron has become my enemy as well as your enemy. Do not expect me to stand silent while you search for answers."

"I expect nothing of the sort," Aragorn said with a slight frown.

"But that was your intent earlier today when you sought out the returning Haradrim and performed your own interrogation."

"Someone needed to care for Legolas."

"And were we to step back and examine the situation logically, we would see that you should have been the one to care for him. You are the greater healer and he would have been better off in your hands."

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed marginally and the muscles of his jaw tightened. Sensing that the heat was beginning to fray tempers, Gimli stepped forward quickly before either one could say anything more. He wondered about the references to Bron, but he sensed that now was not the time for questions. "If you will be on your way, I will finish preparations here and rouse the elf," the dwarf said, hoping he was not transferring their ire to himself. "Did you not say that the next hidden lake is a good distance away and that we should leave as soon as the sun sinks below the sand?"

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, loath to leave the argument with the last words going to Eomer, but he eventually nodded as common sense won out over pride. "Let us seek out Bron, then," he said, making no attempt to soften the ring of command in his voice.

Knowing he had already pushed his luck with Aragorn, Eomer made no mention of the other king’s tone of voice and pulled back the tent flap. "After you," he said.

Aragorn hesitated, but Gimli cleared his throat and the king ducked out of the tent. Eomer followed quickly, leaving the dwarf to shake his head and wonder if the two would adjust to the temperatures before declaring war upon one another. But at least they were gone, and that meant he could turn his attention to the dreaming elven prince.

Gimli wondered if Legolas would speak of what ailed him, but upon further speculation, the dwarf decided that this was a rather unlikely prospect. The proud son of King Thranduil had always been reluctant to reveal any weaknesses or problems, and there was no reason for that to change now. No, if Gimli wished to learn what had affected his friend so dramatically in the early morning, he would have to keep an extra sharp watch on the elf and figure it out for himself. He had a few ideas, of course, but those ideas were far-fetched and remote. During his years of friendship with the elf, Gimli had come to learn a little of the Sindarin tongue, and because of this, the conversation between Aragorn and Legolas earlier that day had not been totally incomprehensible to the dwarf. But what he’d heard had made little sense and he was loath to place too much trust upon his weak grasp of the elven language.

Observations, on the other hand…those were things that Gimli could count upon. Also as a result of his friendship with Legolas, the dwarf had developed an almost elven ability to scrutinize a situation or a person. If he put his mind to deciphering a puzzle, very little escaped his notice. And in addition to this, he was now quite adept a reading his best friend’s moods and thoughts. As such, Gimli had a grounded confidence that he would know what had happened to his friend—or at least as much of it as Legolas knew—by the time they set out for the next hidden lake.

"Legolas?" he called quietly, watching the elf’s open eyes carefully for signs that he was waking. He gave his friend a gentle shake when there seemed to be no response and called him again. "Legolas?"

A soft groan answered him, and the elf stiffened as though he expected an attack. Gimli’s own hand strayed involuntarily to the haft of his axe before he could separate his reactions from those of Legolas. With a shake of his head, the dwarf placed both hands on the elf’s shoulders and he shook his friend harder this time.

"Legolas, it is nearly time to depart. Legolas!"

Something was wrong. An elf was never this hard to wake. Gimli did remember having to wake Legolas once after a rather interesting night in Minas Tirith during which they had celebrated the first anniversary of the destruction of the Ring. But even then, it had not taken too much effort to tear the elf from sleep, though he’d been embarrassingly groggy for an hour or so afterwards. But now…now it was as though Legolas struggled through another world and could not rejoin his comrades in Middle Earth.

"Legolas, if you do not answer me, I will fetch Aragorn and Eomer, and together we shall set up such a din that we will completely drown out any dreams that might grace your elvish mind from now until next week."

The elf groaned again, but he showed no real signs of stirring. His concern growing, Gimli stood to go after Aragorn, but a sudden movement stopped him. Legolas rolled to his side and shivered, curling into a protective ball and raising his arms above his head.

"Legolas?" Gimli knelt back down and gingerly clasped the elf’s shoulder, shaking him gently. "Legolas, are you with me?"

The hazed look of sleep slowly drained from his eyes, and Legolas blinked as though realizing that his name was being called. With a look of confusion, he eventually focused bleary eyes on Gimli’s anxious face. "What happened?"

"You asked us that earlier this morning," Gimli said with a frown, wondering if Aragorn had been wrong and the elf had actually been hit harder than they originally thought. "We drove off some raiders and you were knocked unconscious. We don’t know how or why that happened, though."

"Yes," Legolas said, a bit of clarity beginning to enter his voice. "Yes, you told me this. What…what happened after that?"

"After what?" Gimli asked, his frown deepening.

"After you…wasn’t there a…we were lost in darkness," Legolas finally managed to say, his usual eloquence conspicuously absent. "There was smoke and shadow, and we were lost. Yet now we are here. How did we escape?"

Gimli sat back on his haunches and studied his pale friend. The elf was certainly shaken, of that there could be no doubt. He was paler than usual, there was a slight tremble to his limbs, and fear colored his voice. But what could invade an elven dream to the point of upsetting the dreamer? According to what little Gimli knew about the subject, elven sleep was vastly different from mortal sleep. Nightmares were rare and it was only a handful of elves who could honestly say they’d experienced that unfortunate phenomenon. "I know not what to tell you, my friend," the dwarf eventually answered, meeting the elf’s piercing gaze with concerned, dark eyes. "But we have been here for the entire day. There was no smoke. There was no shadow. There was only light and heat. Perhaps your dreams were affected by this?"

"But…no, I could clearly smell the smoke. I…" The elf trailed off and frowned. He was silent for a few moments during which time Gimli hardly dared to breathe, and then Legolas stood abruptly. He staggered, having risen too quickly, and Gimli hastened to his side, supporting him ere he could fall. The elf muttered a brief word of thanks and then moved forward, determined to walk under his own power. Biting his lip, Gimli followed him, wondering if credence should be given to some of his far-fetched, linguistically inspired ideas as to what had happened to his friend.

Legolas had now reached the tent flap and he pushed it open, practically stumbling his way outside. The desert sun was partially below the horizon, and Gimli could detect a definite fall in temperature, something for which he heartily rejoiced. But he pushed these feelings to the back of his mind and watched his elven friend carefully, trying to determine what mood had overtaken the prince. For his part, Legolas was staring away into the south, shading his eyes against the last of the sunlight and shaking like a leaf caught in a fall wind. Gimli moved toward him and then stopped. He was now close enough to assist the elf should his balance fail but distant enough that Legolas would not feel "coddled," as he was wont to call it.

They stood there in silence for quite some time, and scholars of the rivalry that lay between elves and dwarves might have marveled to see the trembling elf and the concerned dwarf who watched him. At length, Legolas shook his head and stepped back. He lowered his slender hand from his brow and held it before his eyes, studying it with the intense scrutiny one might expect to find from a tracker who hunts illusive prey.

"Legolas?"

The elf started as thought he had forgotten the very existence of the dwarf, and then he turned his bewildered eyes to his friend. "What happened?" he whispered, displaying a vulnerability that Gimli had never before seen in his friend. Not even on the dark journey through Moria had Legolas seemed so troubled. But now was not the time for comfort or consolation. The eyes of the Haradrim would be upon them, and to show weakness was to invite trouble. The dwarf shook his head, cursing the surrounding desert and the Haradrim as a whole.

"Later, Legolas," Gimli said. "Let us pack now, and we will talk during the ride.

The elf nodded mutely, returning his eyes to the sea of sand and shuddering. Watching his friend for a few minutes more, Gimli sighed, shook his head, and turned away, moving to pack the elf’s belongings and find Faensul himself.

* * * *

Aragorn’s mind was involved in what might have been mistaken for a series of complex tumbling exercises. He replayed the events of the early morning over and over again, seeking for explanations and looking to project future possibilities. Making extensive use of simple deductions, the gift of foresight, and his past experiences in Harad, the heir of Isildur evaluated what was known and tried to find some method for identifying and defining the unknowns.

Fact: The Portu tribe was known throughout the desert as one of the most successful raiding tribes, and as such, they were accorded a great deal of respect if not a great deal of trust. They were also known as one of the few tribes who would dare raid the stud herds of Gartabo and Khurintu. During Aragorn’s stay in Harad, he’d met a few members of the Portu tribe. As a general rule, they were cowards at heart, but they hid it well with an outward show of pride that would have impressed an elven lord.

Fact: Bron was exhibiting none of the usual characteristics of a Portu tribe member. He was hesitant, quiet, and he wore his cowardice on his sleeve. He was obviously afraid of Dashnir and Garat, and interestingly enough, Dashnir and Garat were the only two members of the Harad delegation to come under direct attack during the raid.

Conjecture: The Portu raid was an attack on Dashnir and Garat, and the forces of Gondor and Rohan simply got in the way.

Aragorn shook his head. No, that didn’t make sense. Portu might be seen as a politically blundering tribe, but when it came to raiding, they had no equal. They would not attack a camp of armed men in order to exact revenge on two individuals. Retracing his thoughts, Aragorn started to add to his list of facts and to pursue a different line of reasoning.

Fact: Dashnir held a disproportionate amount of respect among the other delegates. Aragorn did not remember the Khurintu tribe wielding as much power as Dashnir seemed to command. It would appear that things had changed significantly since Aragorn’s journey into Harad. Either that or there was something about Dashnir himself that the other delegates feared.

Fact: It was not easy to render an elf unconscious.

Fact: Dashnir and Garat had been standing next to Legolas when the elf fell. Dashnir had not lied when he claimed that he did not strike Legolas, Aragorn was fairly certain of that. No man in Harad could rise to a position of leadership within his tribe without a keen sense of honor, and in the barren deserts, truth was an integral part of honor. But even if Dashnir had not told an outright lie, neither had he spoken the entire truth. He was hiding something.

Fact: Something had happened to Legolas aside from a blow to the head. During the day, the elf had been plagued by uneasy dreams. His disturbed sleep had succeeded in stirring Aragorn from his own rest, and Legolas had not awakened at a gentle touch from the king. More than that, Legolas had admitted that his own senses had diminished in power. Aragorn grimaced, remembering something similar being mentioned once in one of Elrond’s more obscure books of ancient lore. But the details given had been sketchy at best, and Aragorn could not remember much of it. Still, what little he could recall frightened him, and if memory served, Legolas was in danger. But Aragorn was at a loss as to how to help the elf. He could only hope that Legolas would know more of what had happened and that a way could be found to aid him.

Conjecture: Dashnir and Garat had conspired to somehow affect Legolas’s elven senses. The raid had been staged for this purpose.

No, that didn’t fit all the facts, either. They’d had no way of knowing how Gondor and Rohan might respond to the raid. There would have been no guarantee that Legolas would stay behind to guard the horses. And yet the two events—the raid and Legolas’s fall—were related. Aragorn could sense it. But what was the connection?

Perhaps there was one accurate guess in his last conjecture. Perhaps the raid was carried out under the instructions of Dashnir and Garat. Perhaps Legolas had been an unexpected bonus. That would mean that Bron had ordered the raid under compulsion. And that would fit with his recent behavior and apparent fear of Dashnir and Garat. But if that was true, then Bron had fulfilled his purpose and his continued existence would be a danger to Dashnir and Garat. It was common knowledge that members of the Portu tribe could not keep a secret.

But that still didn’t explain why the raid had been staged in the first place. What would Dashnir and Garat gain from forcing the Portu tribe to attack? _I need more information_ , Aragorn sighed. With his current knowledge base as limited as it was, Gondor’s king despaired of finding a persuasive explanation in time to prevent the coming disaster. And something was coming. His foresight was able to tell him that much. But at least now he was assured of several key things. Bron’s tribe had been responsible for the attack. Bron had known of the attack ahead of time. And somehow, Dashnir and Garat were behind the attack’s organization.

"Aragorn?"

"The raid was not Bron’s idea," Aragorn said quietly, coming to a stop and watching the Haradrim delegation as they prepared to mount their horses.

Eomer blinked. "And how came you to this conclusion?"

"My reasoning I will explain later, but I think we must press Bron now for details. We may learn much that will be useful, and perhaps we can put evidence behind our accusations."

"Then let us go," Eomer said, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. The movement was a veiled threat with roots dating back to the beginnings of the Mark, and Aragorn narrowed his eyes as he considered his fellow king.

"Now is not the time for brash actions," he said quietly.

For a response, Eomer smiled disarmingly and started toward the members of the delegation. With a sigh, Aragorn shook his head and followed. In truth, he longed to loosen his sword within its scabbard, which was the way of Gondor’s men when they suspected a threat, but some of the Haradrim, particularly those from northern tribes, would undoubtedly be familiar with that custom. It would not do to express distrust to all of them when for some it would be undeserved. Firmly disciplining his thoughts, Aragorn joined Eomer and together they drew near the delegates.

"Hail to you, honored ones," Dashnir greeted, turning his eyes to the approaching kings. "How fares the injured member of your company?"

"Prince Legolas has recovered," Aragorn said, hoping this was not far from the truth. Stopping, he folded his arms across his chest and adopted a confident stance that was just short of belligerent. "But he wonders about the raid this morning, as do we. It was unexpected, for we are not far from the borders of Lebennin."

"Alas, I fear the desert is filled with their kind," Dashnir said, his eyes surreptitiously darting to Bron’s seething face before returning to Aragorn and Eomer. "They have no real power and so they seek to improve their station by petty theft. What might seem reasonable to them would be as madness to us."

Aragorn nodded, studying Dashnir’s face closely with something akin to elvish scrutiny. "I see," he eventually said. "And what say you, Bron? You are from the Portu tribe, and when I journeyed through this country long ago, the members of your tribe were renowned for their skills as raiders. What do you know of those who attacked us this morning?"

Bron started and stared at Aragorn, his tanned, weathered face paling beneath his heavy beard. "I…I do not know what you wish me to say."

"It is not a matter of what we wish you to say," Eomer said, mirroring Aragorn’s stance. "It is a matter of what must be said. As king of a people who are most often to be found upon the back of a horse, I know somewhat of riding. The way you sit your mount is a perfect match for the raiders from this morning. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Bron, but such imitation is more easily taught that copied. What do you know of our attackers?"

Bron was now nearly as pale as an elf, and Aragorn wondered if someone should step up to catch him before he fell over. "I know of several raiding tribes," Bron finally stammered. "Some of them have learned from Portu, that is no secret, but if you think that…"

"If we think what?" Aragorn pressed when Bron fell silent. "If we think you had aught to do with the raid? And if we did, Bron, would that be a mistake? Perhaps you could enlighten us as to these things. Come, I believe you to be an honorable man. You would not violate Harad’s Code of Truth. What is the answer to our questions?"

"I was not even in the camp for the raid!" Bron protested, backing up even further in the face of Aragorn’s piercing eyes and rising wrath.

"No, but your tribe was," Eomer accused.

"Can you deny that it was your men who attacked us?" Aragorn demanded, bringing to bear all the royal majesty bestowed upon him from Elendil and Isildur of old. "Can you deny that you knew of the attack well before it commenced and had a part in its planning?"

Bron shook his head wordlessly and looked down, unable to meet Aragorn’s condemning eyes. Silence fell for a long moment, and it was several minutes before Bron looked up hesitantly, fear written plainly on his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and but he stopped as though frozen and then Eomer surged forward. So intent was he upon his cornered prey that Aragorn jumped at this sudden interruption and then gasped when he saw Bron topple forward, clutching at a knife that had suddenly appeared in his chest.

Eomer caught the delegate from the Portu tribe in his arms, cursed softly, and swung to stare at Dashnir whose arm was still extended from the throw. The other members of the delegation—with the exception of Garat—backed away slowly, unwilling to become involved in this contest of wills. "What possessed you to do that?" the king of Rohan demanded.

"He was a traitor," Dashnir said. "Those who hear the words of a traitor listen to the words of darkness and shadow. It is best to silence such words before they come to light."

"But such words might have revealed who had forced his tribe to take such action," Aragorn said quietly, capturing Dashnir’s dark eyes and daring him to voice a challenge.

"Perhaps," Dashnir allowed, meeting the king’s stare with a power and presence that startled Aragorn. "But perhaps such things are better left unsaid."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes, but a hiss from behind drew his attention away from the delegate from Khurintu. Turning, he moved quickly to Bron as Eomer laid him upon the ground. "Is he—"

"It is too late," Eomer whispered with a shake of his head and a dark glance directed toward Dashnir. "The dagger could not have been thrown with better accuracy. His heart was pierced instantly."

Bowing his head, Aragorn’s jaw tightened and he reached for the sharp dagger still impaled in Bron’s chest. He drew it out, wiped it against the find folds of Bron’s desert robes, and stood. Turning, he fastened his eyes upon Dashnir and then sent the knife hurtling into the sand at the delegate’s feet. " _Iddaumm ilawwilt bita’ak_ ," Aragorn said quietly, slipping into the tongue of Harad.

Dashnir smiled a frightening, predatory smile, and nodded slightly. " _Anar Khurintu. Hul tishuuf haagur wal?_ " He bent and retrieved his blade, wiping it against the sand to cleanse it of the remaining blood, and then sheathed it in a scabbard hidden well by his flowing robes. "The sun sets, honored ones," Dashnir continued, returning to the Westron tongue. "Are you prepared to ride?"

"The time of our riding is not determined by you," Aragorn said, his voice cold and hard as the blade that had pierced Bron’s heart. "But in this, you are right. The sun does set. And it is time to go." He turned to Eomer who had risen behind him and shook his head, stopping the questions before they could begin. "Summon your riders," he instructed, lowering his voice to the point where Eomer strained to understand what was said. "We will not ride among the delegation this night but behind them, for there is much I would speak of. There are secrets here that must be brought to light."

"It will be as you counsel," Eomer responded quietly, glancing at the delegation. "And I would know all you can tell me, Aragorn. This country is strange to me, and I feel that the Haradrim are not alone in keeping secrets."

Aragorn stiffened slightly but Eomer turned away before he could say aught. And behind them, the sun finally sank below the horizon, plunging the desert into a darkness that whispered of shadows and deceit.

 

 

__

Iddaumm ilawwilt bita’ak—First blood is yours

__

Anar Khurintu. Hul tishuuf haagur wal?—I am Khurintu. Did you expect anything else?


	10. Hope in Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Imrahil paced silently along the parapets of Dol Amroth, listening to the sounds of waves crashing against the shore and feeling the southern wind brush against his face as it rose from the sea to carry its scent inland. The guards said nothing as he walked by their stations, for the prince was frequently a nocturnal creature and often prowled Dol Amroth when all else lay quiet and still. He used such times for thinking and pondering, and rumors circulated among his men that in the dead of night, Prince Imrahil could sometimes dream elven dreams and speak with Arda as the Eldar did.

Of course, these rumors were but the imaginings of men who did not understand such things, and as such they had little factual substance to them. Imrahil was not an elf nor was he even half-elven. He was a man and as mortal as the guards and soldiers who served beneath him. He could no more sing the song of Ilúvatar than he could fly, and elven dreams were far beyond his reach. And yet, there was still something different about him. In his blood ran a hint of elven awareness that would occasionally manifest itself in his steely gray eyes or his penchant for foresight. The heritage of Nimrodel lay upon him, and it was no great wonder that rumors spread among his subordinates that their prince had the gifts and talents of an elf.

And perhaps it was this distant elven relationship that caused him to wander the night when the stars shone brightly upon Middle Earth. There was a solace and a comfort in their presence, and under their twinkling light the sea came to life. Rolling waves with crests of sparkling diamonds leaped along the shoreline, and further out, the sky itself was reflected in the vastness of the ocean. Infinity was doubled, and at times it seemed to Imrahil that he heard a song weaving together all that he saw. He would often pause to simply listen to this elusive melody. It was nothing he could ever imitate and it was not something he was entirely sure existed, but during the late hours of the evening, it would tease his sharp hearing and whisper of greater things that lay beyond the sea and behind the sunset.

But on this night, Imrahil was not listening for music nor would he be receptive to its calming influence. Instead, he was hard at work in attempting to unravel a dark mystery. He had fallen asleep in the late evening just ere sunset, and another ominous dream had come to him. But this time, the images within the nightmare were stark and vivid. He had clearly seen riders in the desert, masked by flying scarves and robes as a protection against blowing sand. He had seen an ancient city of red stone and crumbling walls with many tents and many men encircling it. He had seen smoke and shadow, and beyond the veil of darkness, he had seen a raging fire consume a withering white tree. Then had come shouts carried by the desert wind. Imrahil could not make out the words, but he knew the voices. Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, Gimli, Arhelm, Imhran…they had all been there. And throughout the dream there had been the sound of horses driven madly and without care. Onward they rushed until by the end of the nightmare their coming was as the roaring of the surf. And as they raced, the darkness vanished, leaving only a sea of sand in its wake.

Imrahil sighed and paused to lean against the protective wall of the parapets. He had learned early in his career to give heed to his dreams, but how was he to do that when he knew not what the dreams meant? It was obvious enough that something dark stirred within Harad, but what was he to do about it? How was he to act? Should he take an armed escort and follow Aragorn and Eomer? Should he send reinforcements to Gondor or Pelargir?

"My prince?"

Imrahil identified the speaker even as he turned to face him. He had actually heard the man’s approach, but he had hoped vainly that an answer to his questions might come to him before his mind was called away from contemplation. Unfortunately, answers were still as scarce as elves, or so the old saying went, and Imrahil resigned himself to the fact that his dream was not going to be explained in the immediate future.

"What have you to report, healer?"

"I thought you would wish to know, sire, that Mohart regained consciousness again, but he was awake only for a short time. Still, I think this is progress. His body is cleansing itself of the potion, and that is welcome news."

"Indeed it is," Imrahil murmured softly. Mohart had fallen rather heavily beneath the power of the slafe weed, a plant that grew along the southern border of Rohan and was renowned for its ability to send even the most troubled of sleepers into a peaceful dream world. In small doses, it was harmless enough, but a potent infusion of its extract was capable of knocking the hardiest warrior off his feet for at least three days while producing side effects of nausea and headache. Unfortunately, a few men were more susceptible to the plant than were other men, and it appeared that Mohart was among those unfortunate few.

"He should be conscious again by morning, sire," the healer continued. "I think his body is finally ridding itself of the medicine."

"I wish to know the moment he begins to stir," Imrahil said, turning away and fixing his gaze once more on the ocean. "I will take no chance that he might slip back into unconsciousness until I am given a chance to speak with him."

"It shall be as you command, my prince," the healer promised.

Prince Imrahil nodded. "Good. I wish you a peaceful rest, then. Dismissed."

The healer sketched a quick bow and left the prince. Imrahil listened to his fading footsteps and then sighed, bringing his head down to rest against his outstretched forearms. He would be wise to seek rest, as well, but to do so was to invite the unsettling dream. _Yet if I am to do anything in the prevention of that nightmare’s fulfillment, I must sleep_ , Imrahil thought grimly. He could go longer without sleep than many men could, a gift of his distant elven ancestry, but he was not as the Eldar. If he did not rest this night, he would pay for it later.

Sighing again, Imrahil pushed off the wall, deciding to hearken to the voice of prudence. Dream or no dream, he needed to sleep so as to better help his king and his country. It was his duty and responsibility. And if the dream did come again, perhaps it would come with further details that might aid in its interpretation. Wishful thinking, maybe, but seven years ago, the fall of Mordor and the return of the king had also seemed like wishful thinking.

__

And I must understand this dream, the prince thought, still trying to convince himself that laying down to rest was a desirable thing. _Pacing here has done me no good, and so I must confront this mystery at its source. Only in understanding shall I find my answers, and I feel that these answers must come quickly. Darkness and shadows walk in the desert this night._

As if to confirm this, the wind that blew in from the sea suddenly chilled, and shivers raced down Imrahil’s spine. Shuddering slightly, the prince whispered a silent prayer to the Valar and hoped that the premonitions haunting his nightmares were also plaguing Aragorn. The king might know what to make of this. As for himself, Imrahil felt completely lost.

* * * *

Faensul raced through the desert, eating away at the distance with long, easy strides. Upon his back and seemingly ignorant of the soothing gallop, Legolas listened to a world of silence and slowly sank into a pit of despair. The song of Ilúvatar had vanished, and he felt its absence with a painful yearning that threatened to dwarf even his perpetual longing for the sea.

"Tell me, Gimli, what think you of Bron’s death?" the elf asked, desperate to make some kind of significant noise that would fill the silence around him.

"You have already asked me that," the dwarf said, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

"I have?" Legolas tried to remember that part of the conversation, but he could not. Looking back now, he realized he had been uncharacteristically talkative for most of the ride, and it was quite possible he had asked many things in a mindless effort to simply make use of his voice. "Then tell me again," he finally said. "I fear I have forgotten."

That should have been an invitation to open up a round of friendly banter with Gimli, but the dwarf did not immediately answer. At length, he finally spoke, but it was not to tease the elf concerning his forgetfulness. Instead, it was to comply with the prince’s request, and Legolas immediately wondered what was going through the mind of the dwarf. How much did he suspect?

"I think that Dashnir had reasons for killing Bron other than to silence the voice of a traitor," Gimli answered, his voice still too quiet for the elf’s comfort. "From what I have observed of him, he is a man who craves information. Bron’s words might have revealed much, but Dashnir would not hear them. This means he probably already knew the truth of the matter and that something in that truth was a danger to him. I think Dashnir had something to do with the raid."

"Your thoughts match my own," Legolas said, hurrying to fill the silent void before it could fully manifest itself again. He knew his actions would only fuel the suspicions already building in his friend, but he could do nothing else. He could not bear oppressive stillness that fell every time he ceased to speak. Even the dull thudding of hooves around him could not mask the absence of sound in the surrounding desert. "Did Aragorn or Eomer tell you any more of their confrontation with Bron?"

"You heard as much as I did for you were standing with me when they spoke to us," Gimli answered. "But perhaps you were not listening then. It seems, Master Elf, that you are saying many things tonight, but that you are not truly listening."

"Why do you say that?" Legolas asked, trying to come up with a way to divert the dwarf. Unfortunately, what the dwarf said was true. After their tent had been dismantled, Legolas had summoned his elven mental guards and locked down his emotions as best as he was able. He thought he’d done a fairly convincing job of creating the illusion that all was well, but apparently he had not fooled his friend.

"Aragorn, for one thing," the dwarf answered the elf. "He pressed you hard this evening ere we left Lake Supt, and yet you answered him with a curtness that surprised me. I have rarely heard you use such a tone of voice, Legolas, and it seems to me that you labor under a distressing problem. You told Aragorn as much early this morning. I was hesitant to believe what I heard, but your actions this night are convincing me."

Legolas blinked, trying to remember exactly what he had told Aragorn in that short period between the time he’d woken from unconsciousness and the time he’d fallen into ill dreams. "We spoke in Sindarin," he finally said. "How can you know what I told Aragorn?"

"My friend, I credit you with having a measure of intelligence. Kindly return me the same favor," Gimli chided. "Think you that elves alone are skilled in languages? You forget that I am frequent visitor in Ithilien, and I have picked up much of your speech. When you and Aragorn converse in Sindarin, it is no longer as secret as you might wish it to be. I do not know all that you say, but I am usually able to gain a general understanding."

"I cannot see where this conversation is headed," Legolas lied, knowing all too well where the conversation was headed. "Shall we turn our thoughts to other matters?"

"No, we shall not. I have waited long enough and have given you every opportunity to explain yourself, but my patience is wearing thin and your behavior is foolishness. We shall stay on this subject until you and I come to a mutual understanding." Gimli’s tone was bordering on condescending, and Legolas felt a flash of anger race through him at the same time he realized how futile it would be to divert his friend. Tenacious to a fault, when a dwarf latched on to an idea or a project, it was nearly impossible to turn his attention elsewhere. And in matters of loyalty and friendship, Gimli possessed this tenacity to an unusual degree.

"And what is it that you would have us understand?" Legolas sighed, conceding the round and surrendering to the dwarf’s whims for the moment. But he would make the dwarf pay later for that _foolishness_ remark.

"I would have us both understand my responsibilities as your friend," Gimli said. "You would know all there is to know of me, yet in your mind, I cannot become concerned if something affects your welfare."

"I do not desire—"

"Yes, I know you do not desire my pity, and I would not offer it if I thought there was some way I could be of aid to you. But without sufficient information, I lend you what I am able, and if I cannot give you my assistance, at the very least, I will give you my pity." The dwarf stopped as though expecting Legolas to say something, but Legolas chose to remain quiet this time, focusing his mind on the rhythmic pounding of Faensul’s hooves beneath them as the horse effortlessly flew across the desert sand. Even the void of sound was better than encouraging his friend’s interrogation. But after a moment, the silence seemed to become awkward for the dwarf, and Gimli sighed and continued. "When you woke this morning after the battle, you asked to look outside. We all wondered at that, but in your typical fashion, you would not say what troubled you. Then Aragorn spoke to you in Sindarin and you replied in the same tongue. Now, I do not profess to be a scholar in the elvish languages, but I gathered some information from that brief dialogue. Would you like to repeat it for me, or shall I repeat it for you?"

"You are the one who would have us come to an understanding," Legolas said. At least one good thing was coming of this conversation. It was curing the elf of his need to babble constantly. "If it is so important to you, then I feel you should repeat it."

Gimli chuckled, and Legolas had the rather disconcerting impression that the dwarf had been expecting an answer like that. "Obstinate to a fault. Very well, then. But I expect no censure from you concerning my interpretation of Sindarin, for I do this at your bidding."

"My bidding?"

Gimli ignored him and continued on. "When you spoke to Aragorn, you first said something about _cenedn_. That means _my sight_. I should know as I hear it enough in Ithilien. Your subjects find it quite amusing that I cannot spot them in the trees when they follow me. The next words were familiar for the same reason. _U-cenidh_ translates to _I cannot see_. I also hear that with regularity."

"I shall have to speak with my kinsmen about this," Legolas murmured.

"Do not trouble yourself," Gimli said. "It has actually become something of a game for some of them, and I would not begrudge an elf a chance at fun, seeing as they have only trees and one another for company."

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Legolas demanded, hoping to keep the conversation focused on their usual banter.

"If you cannot decipher it for yourself, I fear you are beyond my help," Gimli said. "But we stray. Or rather, you seek to lead us astray, but I fear that you have met your match this night, Legolas. Let us return to our original topic. As you continued to speak with Aragorn, I heard _cened_ again, so more about sight, and then you said _firiath_. I am not altogether certain about this word, but I believe it means _mortal_. Do I err?"

" _Firiath_ refers to mortals as a collective group," Legolas admitted reluctantly.

"Good. The rest of the conversation was lost to me, but based on what I did understand and what I have seen from you tonight, I think I can draw a few simple conclusions. Would you like to hear them?"

"Am I given a choice?"

"No. I submit the idea that something happened to you between the time you fell and the time you woke. And whatever happened, it took away your elven sight. You cannot see our next destination. You cannot see the hawks that hover beyond range of mortal eyes. You cannot see Haradhur. You cannot look behind us and see Pelargir or Anduin. And along with elven sight, I believe that some of your elven hearing has also vanished. You should have heard me this evening when I woke you. You should have heard Faensul when he came to greet you. And you should be hearing whatever it is that you hear when the surrounding world speaks to you, but I do not believe you can. I think that is why you have been so vocal during the ride. You seek to fill a silence to which you are unaccustomed. Now, my friend, how far away from the mark do I shoot?"

For a long time, Legolas said nothing, pondering the dwarf’s words and marveling at how easy it was for Gimli to see through his efforts at deception. At length, the elf sighed, knowing he would have to give some kind of an answer soon. "You should have been an archer," he finally said. "Your arrows have found their mark."

It was now Legolas’s turn to wait for Gimli to respond, and he wondered what the dwarf would say. It was painfully obvious that he’d known very well what ailed the elf and did not seek confirmation but, as he put it, an understanding. He wanted Legolas to trust him. The irony lay in the fact that Legolas did trust him. The elf trusted Gimli with his life. But as the prince continued to think about it, he realized that this trust failed to extend to one very important thing. He would not—could not—trust Gimli with his problems. Why this should be was something he did not entirely understand. He was loathe to burden others with things he saw as his own, but when such burdens had to be shared, why this reluctance to share them with Gimli?

"Thank you, my friend," Gimli said quietly, breaking the elf’s train of thought. "And now do you understand? I refuse to ride blindly behind you or stand ignorant at your side. I am not merely your companion but also your friend, yet how can I claim that friendship when I take no thought for your welfare? In truth, how can you claim friendship with me when you take no thought for my concern?"

"I did not wish to burden you unnecessarily. And were our places exchanged, I think you would harbor similar feelings," Legolas answered.

"Perhaps," Gimli allowed. "But I also know that you would weary my ears with questions until you had uncovered the root of my troubles. You would not see a problem of mine as an unnecessary burden, nor do I see a problem of yours as such. Can you understand that?"

"I can, Gimli," the elf answered, understanding but not necessarily liking what was understood. He sighed and shook his head. "And I thank you for your concern as well as your words of wisdom."

"You are fortunate I am here to gift you with such words, for I fear you would never find wisdom on your own," the dwarf answered.

"I thought you credited me with a measure of intelligence," Legolas returned with a slight smile, feeling that perhaps all was not quite lost.

"My tongue must have slipped at the time," Gimli retorted. "But now that we have come to an understanding, let us turn to the problem itself. Sight and hearing have been reduced, but as they were only reduced and not taken from you, I do not think it was the blow to your head. Do you have any insight into this matter, Master Elf?"

"I am not certain, but I believe I have one plausible idea," Legolas said. He winced at just how tentative he sounded, but in truth, he was grasping at shadows and might very well be wrong. "Elves and dwarves are not as men, for while we are bound to Ilúvatar’s song, men act independently of it. This is both a blessing and a curse, for as the song winds to a close, our peoples fade. But being bound to the song gives us abilities and perceptions that men do not share. Elven sight and elven hearing are gifts of the song that enable us to reach out over far distances and hear what happens in other areas where the song is sung."

"And what should happen to an elf who was somehow cut off from this song?" Gimli asked.

"You are shrewd as ever, my friend," Legolas sighed. "I was not yet born, but histories from the First and Second Ages speak of sorcerers among men who learned dangerous arts. They learned to separate a being from the power of Ilúvatar, and these men employed this power against other men, dwarves, and ultimately against the elves. Among my people, the act was known as _ú-glîr_ , or the taking away of the song. I know not how it affected the other Races, but if I rightly recall what I was taught, an elf who is separated from Ilúvatar’s melody loses the ability to commune with the other inhabitants of Arda. The elf hears silence where once there were voices and becomes as a man in many respects, sundered from the power of the song and forced to live with diminished abilities."

"What of immortality?" Gimli asked, suddenly fearful. "What of that? Is that, too, gone?"

"No one really knows," Legolas admitted with a casual shrug that belied his own fears. "Most elves who were separated did not learn to adjust and were killed in battle or through simple mishap. Others were rejoined to the song. For myself, I do not believe immortality is affected, for that is a gift not entirely of the song but also of the greater will of the Ilúvatar that goes beyond his song. And should an elf be sundered from that all-encompassing will, then I do not believe such an elf could live more than an hour or so without dying from the shock."

"If you seek to comfort me with this information, you have failed," Gimli informed his friend.

"How shall I comfort you when I have failed to comfort myself?"

"You could at least make the attempt. But answer me this question, if you can. Who would know how to cast such a spell in this age? And why should they seek to cast it upon you?"

"I know not," Legolas whispered, glancing around at the company. "I did not think such an art survived beyond the fall of Sauron. Indeed, I did not think it even survived the ending of the Second Age. Among my people it is related as a thing of the past, and for the elves, a thing of the past is something that happened very long ago and shall not come again. It seems impossible that men would have this ability, but recent events say otherwise." The elf trailed off, deep in thought, and eventually sighed. "You have told me that Dashnir and Garat were present when I fell. It may have been one of them, as unlikely as that might seem. On the other hand, the break in my memory might be the point where I fell beneath _ú-glîr_ , and in that case, it would have been one of the raiders. As for the purpose, I can think of naught save to deprive our company of forewarning should an enemy attack, for I will not be able to see them coming from afar."

"And in that, we would lost a strategic advantage, so it would seem their aims are military," Gimli mused. "That would fit with both Garat and with the horse raiders. We are still left with a mystery. Well, since we cannot solve this puzzle, let us turn our minds to another. How do we undo what has been done?"

"We are not certain of what has been done," Legolas cautioned, "and until we are, I would not take action. There are different forms of this sorcery, and depending upon which one has been used, the method of undoing it changes. And even for the simplest forms of _ú-glîr_ , I fear there are none here who possess the knowledge to remove it save the one who laid it upon me."

"Then I suppose we had better ensure that you make necessary adjustments," Gimli said, falling back to practical matters as was typical of a dwarf. "I would not see you injure yourself in battle or mishap because you could not accustom yourself to limited vision and hearing. When we stop this morning, you will borrow Eomer’s shield, and you and I will spar. We will see what has become of your elven reflexes and what must be changed to account for what you have lost."

"I cannot alter overnight what hundreds of years have trained me to do," Legolas protested.

"You can and you will," Gimli said firmly, "or you will be forced to answer to me and also to the complaints of your body, for I will not hold back."

"No, I suppose you will not," Legolas said, and a smile crept over his face. "My thanks, Gimli. I have not trusted you as I should, and I see now that this was foolishness on my part."

"You are welcome, my friend," and the dwarf loosened his grasp from the elf’s tunic to reach up and clap his friend on the shoulder. "Elven senses or no, we shall stand together, and in the face of our combined might, all enemies must fall."

Comforted by Gimli’s forceful words, Legolas nodded and reached up to grasp the dwarf’s hand. "Together as always, _elvellon_ ," he said. "And may the Valar’s swift wrath come upon any who seek to drive us apart."

__

 

 

Ú-glîr—A word I made up by taking a common negating prefix and combining it with the Sindarin word for song. Basically, "without song" or "the absence of song."

__

Elvellon—Elf-friend


	11. Heritage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Aragorn swung quickly out of Arnor’s saddle and sighed at the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his legs and the aching complaints of his muscles. He’d been on long rides before—the Paths of the Dead came to mind as one particularly difficult journey by horseback—but since he’d taken up Gondor’s throne, his riding had been somewhat restricted. Even now after the sixth day of their journey, he was still adjusting to the continuous rigors of travel by horse.

__

Has it really been six days? Aragorn thought about that for a moment. It was a four-day journey from Dol Amroth to Anduin. After that it was one day from Anduin to Lake Supt, and then another day to get here to Lake Miyarr. Yes, it had been six days with their current company and several days in addition to that if one were to count the journey between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. _Over a week_ , Gondor’s king reflected. _And yet we know so little of our escort’s motives and desires. How is it that we are still so blind? What shadow has been cast over this land that so affects our perception?_

"We must speak with Legolas and Gimli," a soft voice said.

Aragorn sighed and nodded, turning to face Eomer. It didn’t help his mood to note that the king of Rohan seemed completely unaffected by the long hours spent in the saddle, but then, that was only to be expected of the horse-lord. "We will speak with them," Aragorn said, keeping his voice quiet. "But I would wait for the rising of the sun. There is then less chance of being overheard."

"So long as you are given enough time to tell them what you told me," Eomer answered. "Your reasoning is sound and together I think we now have strong cases against both Dashnir and Garat though we may not be able to openly accuse them. Not yet, anyway."

"Patience," Aragorn counseled softly, his eyes watching Dashnir as the man dismounted and began seeing to the needs of his horse. "These men are not as Bron was. It shall be far more difficult to prove they have done anything, and until then, we cannot act. Baseless accusations in Harad are indications that you seek only to sully another’s honor. We cannot be so brash so early in the game."

"Eomer? Legolas is in need of your shield."

Aragorn blinked and turned around, letting thoughts of Dashnir and Garat move to the back of his mind. "My shield?" Eomer questioned, raising his brows and studying the dwarf.

"For only a short while," Gimli explained. "He will return it to you after sunrise.

Aragorn cast his eyes about and quickly found Legolas standing a short distance away. The elf was staring at the ground—an odd sight as he was usually to be found staring at the horizon—and appeared completely oblivious to his surroundings, but Aragorn sensed this was not the case. To the king of Gondor, it felt as though Legolas was painfully aware of things around him but that such things were somehow not enough for his comfort. It was as though he were waiting for something else to manifest itself. And at the same time, there was a hopeless air about him that suggested he did not expect his wait to be rewarded.

"Legolas?" Aragorn whispered, hoping against hope that the prince would allow himself to be comforted.

" _Abonnen_ ," the elf murmured. " _Gimli thêl sen erui_."

Aragorn nodded slowly, realizing that was probably all he was going to get for now. Still, it was more than could usually be expected of Legolas and that was something. Normally, the elf would have brushed off all concern and informed any who would listen that he was perfectly fine. In fact, the more Aragorn thought about it, the more surprising it became that Legolas had not done this, and the king’s shrewd mind quickly pinned down the cause. " _Gimli ista_?"

" _E ista_ ," Legolas confirmed with a small but genuine smile, his eyes sparkling with gratitude in the darkness. The prince laughed quietly and shook his head, raising his head to watch the dwarf. " _E ista. A edh istatha abthelg_."

"Legolas?" Gimli walked past Aragorn and tossed Eomer’s shield to the elf. "Shall we?"

"If you insist," Legolas answered, his smile growing slightly.

"I do. Aragorn, Eomer, we shall see you in an hour or so."

"I hope they do not exert themselves overmuch," Aragorn said quietly as elf and dwarf strode away. "Water is lost in exercise and they are not allotted much."

"They know the dangers," Eomer said, shrugging his shoulders and appearing to find the absence of a shield to be a rather curious thing.

"They know the dangers, you say, but when has such knowledge ever deterred them?" Aragorn wondered with a trace of amusement and a shake of his head.

"Where do they go?" a new voice asked, succeeding in startling both Aragorn and Eomer though they were adept enough to hide it well. Aragorn’s humor vanished abruptly and was swiftly replaced by a fraying temper.

"Why do you concern yourself with them, Dashnir?" the king of Gondor asked, his voice cold and threatening.

"Curiosity is a powerful master," Dashnir replied, seemingly oblivious of Aragorn’s foul mood. "And I would know more of elves and dwarves. I have seen and heard much as we have traveled together on this journey, but one feels a need to learn more. Also, I wonder at the elf’s speedy recovery. He was unconscious yesterday morning, yet he sat his horse well and conversed much with the dwarf during the ride this night."

"If you would truly know more of elves, then perhaps you should speak with Legolas," Eomer said, drifting to Aragorn’s side and stepping back as though to cover him in the event of an attack. The movement did not go unnoticed by either Aragorn or Dashnir, but neither deigned to comment on it, though the king of Gondor thought he caught a fleeting smile on Dashnir’s face.

"Your words are wise, and perhaps I shall speak with him," Dashnir said at length, studying both Aragorn and Eomer with quiet scrutiny. "But he is currently occupied, and I thought to ask you, honored ones, rather than disrupt his concentration. Is he always so…focused? So somber?"

"It is the way of the elves to be ever alert, particularly in situations where they are uncertain or suspicious," Aragorn answered, wondering what motive Dashnir had for inquiring after Legolas’s manner. "And his fall yesterday has given us all much to think about."

"Yes, that was rather unexpected," Dashnir agreed, his tone casual and conversational.

"We still wonder about it, and we talked of little else last night," Aragorn continued, moving slightly closer to Dashnir. "Know you anymore about the event? You caught him as he fell. Has aught of importance occurred to you since then?"

"I told you all that I am able to tell you," Dashnir said, turning to face Aragorn fully. His black eyes glinted in the predawn light and his face twisted in cruel mockery of a smile. "I know little of elves, as I have already said, and would think that his care lies with you rather than with me. What more would you have me say, King Elessar?"

"You could tell us that which you are unable to speak of," Aragorn said, his voice becoming quiet and cold.

"And how would I do that, seeing as I am unable?" Dashnir asked.

"By becoming able," Aragorn recommended, moving even closer.

"You know the desert well, honored one," Dashnir hissed, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to withstand Aragorn’s piercing gaze. "But even one such as you does not have all knowledge. You play at dangerous games in a perilous land. Pray that you will able to finish what you begin."

"I could say the same of you, Dashnir," Aragorn returned, watching his opponent closely for anything that might betray his true intentions. "You know not whom you oppose, and such a weakness may prove your undoing. You have acted too quickly and without sufficient thought. _Mashir issahrn ma hragel, wal hatisundri aqriib an ilmiaya_."

" _Lathak yiqulu kith_ ," Dashnir said with a strange expression that could almost be called a smile. He watched the two kings a moment longer and then executed a quick bow. "I shall remember your words, honored one. See that you remember mine. And now if you will excuse me, I shall take my leave. I have need of rest." So saying, he turned away, seizing hold of his horse’s reins in the process. Aragorn’s eyes followed him closely as he moved toward the shores of Lake Miyarr until he joined with the other Haradrim and began to engage them in conversation.

"Did you gather anything from that?" Eomer asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward to converse with Aragorn.

"Naught that we do not already know," Aragorn answered wearily, unable to keep a trace of frustration from his voice. "Dashnir is hiding something and knows far more than he tells, but that is our only certainty. More than that is speculation. We can guess at his past actions and we can guess at the extent of his involvement, but we do not know enough to hazard a theory as to either his motives or his future intentions."

"But we will never be certain of anything no matter how long we wait out the enemy," Eomer said. "If we are to make any headway of our current situation, we must proceed without all the facts and rely on the whim of fate and the logic of our speculations."

"You speak the truth, yet I wish it were not so," the king of Gondor sighed. "The greater the uncertainty, the greater the risk. And in this land, Eomer, you are not given much room for error. Nor is there such a thing as a second chance." Aragorn fell silent and then seemed to shake himself, dismissing whatever mood had fallen upon him. "Come. We will aid the men in the establishment of camp and then take what counsel we are able. There is much to discuss."

* * * *

Dol Amroth’s healer found Prince Imrahil almost exactly where he had left him the night before—perched upon the battlements with eyes toward the sea. Though the prince had sought rest during the night after the two parted, he’d found sleep to be elusive and had eventually given up. Returning to the parapets, he’d sought out a comfortable seat and had then fixed his gaze upon the crashing waves, drawing strength from the ever-flowing waters and using that strength in an attempt to unravel the mysteries of his dark dreams. So caught up was Imrahil in his own musings that he did not stir at the approach of his healer, causing the other to pause before speaking.

"Sire?" the healer said hesitantly, uncertain as to whether or not the prince wished to be disturbed. But Imrahil had explicitly ordered that he was to be informed the moment Mohart began to regain consciousness, and it looked as though the man was beginning to do so. "Sire?" the healer tried again when there was no response to first query.

"Do you know why the elves cross the sea, Lortere?"

Lortere frowned slightly, surprised by the question. "No, sire, I do not. I know little of elves and their ways."

"That is your loss, then," Imrahil murmured, his eyes still fixed on the swelling tide that beat relentlessly upon the shore. "For myself, I would know more. They say the sea sings to the elves and that they must hearken to its voice when they are called or live in anguish with its song forever in their hearts. They say the sea takes elves to an ancient home and to lands that never die. They say, too, that Númenor looked upon these lands and that the men who dwelt upon that blessed isle were gifted with great knowledge. I wonder if such knowledge was imparted in the way of dreams and if these dreams were not somewhat inspired by the sea. Can you hear it? Can you hear its true voice? Almost it is a melody that brushes at the edge of awareness."

Lortere blinked. According to the guards and the soldiers, Prince Imrahil did this sometimes. It was rumored that upon occasion, the prince seemed to depart to another world and ponder things far beyond the comprehension of ordinary men. His distant elven blood was said to be the cause, and some of the guard would even go so far as to say that the prince conversed with the Valar during these times. The healer had been highly skeptical of all these reports, but then, he’d never actually seen the prince enter one of these thoughtful moods. Now that he had, he was no longer quite so skeptical of the guards and their claims.

"My prince, you wished to be informed if Mohart began to wake," Lortere said, wondering if Imrahil was actually listening. "I believe he does now, sire, and that he will become fully conscious soon."

"Thank you," Imrahil murmured, stirring slightly. With a shake of his head and a deep sigh that bespoke great weariness, the prince turned from the ocean and faced his healer. "Let us see to him, then, for there is much that I would ask. And if what I suspect is true, there is much that he can tell me."

"As you command, sire," the healer said with a quick bow. Following in the prince’s wake, he couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble in the other’s frame. It seemed that Imrahil had spent too much on the parapets and too little time in his own bed. But such was Imrahil’s wont, and the healer knew that no words of his could change his prince’s routine. He would simply have to keep a close eye on the prince and make certain he did not stumble. With this simple resolve firmly in his mind, Lortere hastened after Prince Imrahil as they quickly made their way toward the healing section of the castle.

* * * *

"A novice could have blocked that strike," Gimli sighed with a weary shake of his head.

From the rather ignominious position of flat-on-his-back, Legolas grimaced and estimated the numbers of bruises he had incurred, was incurring, and would continue to incur before the sun rose. "Perhaps a novice who knows no other way of defense," the elf said quietly. "But I am still falling upon old habits to aid me, and I fear my diminished senses are now an impediment rather than a help."

"I have had to live with mortal senses for my entire life, and I will take no complaints from you on the matter," Gimli said firmly. "Now stand and guard! Or shall I attack you where you lie?"

__

At the moment, I think the latter position would be no worse than the former, Legolas thought bitterly. But he doubted that his friend would openly share his view—though Gimli might very well agree in secret—and Legolas shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind. With a groan of frustration, the only sign of discouragement the elf would allow, he labored to his feet and hoisted the heavy shield into position. "I am now ready. Let us proceed, Gimli."

"Check your position," the dwarf said, folding his arms across his broad chest and giving the elf a disapproving frown. "And then tell me whether or not you are truly ready."

Puzzled, Legolas looked down at himself and then sighed. They had discovered early in the sparring session that Legolas’s sense of balance was no longer as sharp or as accurate as it had been, and to correct that problem, the elf had been forced to adopt a man’s stance with a shield rather than his usual position. An elf might have more movement with a shield but a man had more stability, and at the moment, Legolas needed the latter rather than the former. Unfortunately, such an adjustment did not come naturally to the elf and he found his mounting frustration was becoming nearly unbearable. "Gimli, I—"

"I have heard one too many words from you this morning, Master Elf," Gimli interrupted, his deep-set eyes darkening. "Now properly position yourself and prepare to guard."

"But—"

"Now!"

__

I suppose I should know by now that arguing with him is pointless once his mind is set, Legolas thought to himself, taking the time to shift his feet and orient himself with an unfamiliar battle stance. He did feel more stable, but the inability to lithely dance away from blows was rather disconcerting. He was uncomfortable with the idea of limited movement during a battle, for his strategy of old had always been to stay in motion and make use of the confusion that this generated around him. But there was naught he could do about that now, and the dwarf was waiting. Hefting the shield into place, he looked up to announce his readiness only to find that Gimli was already on the attack.

Bracing securely against his back right leg—he had at least learned how to make use of this position once it had been attained—he caught the dwarf’s first strike full on, shoving the axe off and then moving to the left as Gimli followed up with an overhand blow. The elf then swung his shield around as Gimli’s subsequent hit came in from the side, but something went wrong and Legolas suddenly found that his center of weight was no longer where it should be. What happened next was inevitable. Flipping the axe around, Gimli slammed its haft into the elf’s unprotected side before he could right himself and Legolas found himself back on the ground. He was beginning to wonder if that wasn’t the safest place for him to be.

"At least you managed to keep your weight over your feet until that last hit," Gimli sighed, sounding rather frustrated himself with the elf’s slow progress. "I suppose that is something."

"That is better than my first attempt."

"Legolas, anything would be better than your first attempt."

The elf sighed, having nothing to say in response because Gimli spoke the bitter truth. With a slight grunt, he rolled off his side and onto his feet, seizing Eomer’s large shield as he did so. "Again?" he wondered, ignoring a small voice in the back of his head that screamed enough was enough.

"In a moment," Gimli answered. "Position for a block against your side. That seems to disrupt your balance more than do other blocks."

"Gimli, I do not see how this is going to help me," Legolas said, swinging his shield around to the side as the dwarf had instructed. "I do not normally take a shield into battle with me, and my first weapon in close combat is my knife."

"We have already been over this, Master Elf. You are becoming more aware of your own limitations and you are learning to adjust to them," Gimli pointed out, walking around the elf and studying his position with a critical eye. "At least, you should be learning to adjust, but it seems that you have failed yet again. Look at the placement of your shield. It is too far away from your body and a nudge from my axe would knock you over."

Legolas frowned. "If I keep it any closer, I have not room strike around it."

"Yes, you do. Your strike is more limited, I will grant you that, but you still have room to strike." Seeing the elf’s rebellious look, the dwarf shook his head and sighed. "Legolas, you no longer have the reflexes to adjust if you shift your center of gravity too abruptly. You must keep your shield closer to your body. Flinging it wide is causing you to overbalance."

"Are you sure your mere presence is not the cause of that?" the elf asked, forcing his face to become an innocent blank.

"Elves," Gimli grumbled. "They can keep their minds focused on nothing if it involves not trees or stars. Let us spar once more for the day," he said before Legolas could respond to his jibe. "And try to remember that you must keep your center of balance consistent. We will see how long you can last this time."

Legolas sighed and wearily took up the starting guard position. He knew Gimli well enough to recognize that those last words had been calculated to sting elven pride and elicit a stronger defense, but despair was slowly creeping over the prince, and in truth he no longer cared what was said of him or to him. What honor did he have left, sundered as he was from Ilúvatar’s song? He was no help to Aragorn in his current condition, nor did he know how to alter said condition. And to adjust as Gimli demanded he do would take years of training simply to relearn the very basics. He could not change centuries of habits in a matter of hours.

"Pity is most unbecoming an elf," Gimli said sharply, watching Legolas with shrewd eyes. "And while I may grant you a measure of pity, you cannot afford to indulge in it. You have not the time for such a luxury."

"Think you that I desire to dwell in it?" Legolas asked wearily.

"Perhaps not. But that does not prevent it from happening." Gimli studied the elf for a minute longer with a gaze that Legolas found strangely disconcerting. After a moment, the dwarf sighed and lifted his axe. "Shall we?"

Legolas gave a short nod and settled himself firmly against his back leg, gaining confidence from increased stability but despairing over the loss of agility. It was a trade he did not like, but Gimli had been insistent that such an adjustment had to be made. The dwarf was right, of course. What use would greater movement be if he could not even maintain his balance? Still…

The elf was not given time to ponder his thoughts, for Gimli chose that moment to launch his attack. Legolas staggered slightly as the force of the axe blow caught him slightly unawares, but he recovered quickly and parried the next blow successfully, making a conscious effort to keep the shield closer to his body than was his wont.

The dwarf’s next blow came in from the side—a test of sorts to see if Legolas had made the proper adjustments to his stance and his guard. The elf smiled grimly, noting that despite his warnings during the night’s ride, Gimli was pulling his blows and giving Legolas a chance to prove himself. _And there are elves who claim that dwarves are ungracious_ , the prince thought, successfully bringing his shield to the side and managing to retain his balance.

Gimli abruptly spun and brought the axe in from the opposite side, and Legolas once again made a conscious effort not to swing the shield out and around. Had his former sense of balance still graced him, he would have used such a move to act as a counterweight against a spinning leap, but he felt could no longer execute that maneuver without something going horribly and disastrously wrong. So he kept on the defensive, seeking only to parry blows and not to return them.

As he continued to keep his shield in, Gimli began to increase the speed of his attack, though his blows were still far short of their full power. It was a courtesy for which Legolas was intensely grateful, but at the same time, it was beginning to rankle his pride. Gimli did not trust him enough to place more power behind his strikes, and while there was certainly good reason for that distrust, Legolas still felt slighted. As such, he began to step forward into more of the strikes, surprising and pleasing Gimli with his boldness, and the speed of the attacks continued to increase.

A swing came in from the side and Legolas parried, keeping the shield close, but this time he tipped it and the axe glanced off at an odd angle. His balance partially disrupted, Gimli staggered backwards and Legolas jumped forward, pressing the advantage. But he did not have the advantage for long as Gimli suddenly caught the bottom of the shield with the axe’s haft. The shield flew up but Legolas had experienced such a move before and he jumped with the shield, keeping its metal face between him and the dwarf. The sturdy haft swept the air beneath his feet and Legolas was rewarded with a short oath indicating Gimli’s surprise at the move.

Unfortunately for Legolas, however, he had not taken into account his landing. He came down as an elf would normally come down, the positioning of his feet such so that he would be able to leap away quickly while he trusted in a keen sense of balance and a natural agility to help him land successfully. Because of this, he hit the ground hard and suddenly cried out as an ankle rolled beneath him. It required no blow of Gimli’s to fell the elf as gravity stepped in to on the side of the dwarf. Eomer’s shield rolled harmlessly to the side and Legolas groaned to find himself yet again on the sand.

"Better," Gimli pronounced gruffly. "So long as you keep your mind focused, I believe we may make a warrior of you yet."

"Valar have mercy," Legolas murmured. "I have a dwarf’s vote of confidence. It seems I am truly condemned."

"You say that only because you are jealous of my greater skills," Gimli retorted. He pursed his lips and thought back over the last encounter. "As a whole, my friend, you are improving. However, that last move…it was creative, but Legolas, you cannot try things like that until you know better the new limitations that have been placed upon you. Had my intent been to kill you, then I—"

"Then you would not have been holding back," Legolas interrupted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He glanced at the horizon in the east and shaded his eyes as the rim of the sun began to emerge. "We should retire for the day," the elf said quietly, watching as the desert was suddenly flooded with light. "Already I can feel the heat begin to rise."

"And no doubt you feel that the shield has become too heavy for you to lift," Gimli chuckled. Legolas glared at the dwarf but said nothing, for the jest was actually dangerously close to the truth. Seeming to sense this, Gimli shrugged and picked up the fallen shield, easily slinging it onto his back. "Come then, my vanquished foe. If it is rest you seek, then let us find it. I, too, would rest. It is no easy work to train so incompetent a student."

Elven pride finally flared to life in Legolas, a rather disturbing smile flitted across his face, and he suddenly kicked out at the dwarf from his sitting position, sending Gimli flying across the sand. "So incompetent a student you say?" Legolas laughed when Gimli turned an outraged expression on him. "And what of the teacher? Is it not a warrior’s way to be ever prepared?"

The look of indignation gradually gave way to a sheepish grin and Gimli laughed quietly. "I suppose that if I look to raise a response in you, I should not be surprised when I receive one. My apologies, Legolas. I did not mean to offend."

"You did not," Legolas answered, pushing himself to his feet. "But you were coming close." Walking over to the dwarf, he offered him a helping hand up which Gimli accepted it as a token of peace. "Come, _elvellon_. Since it seems that we are both vanquished, let us find those who are not so fallen yet," the elf said. "Aragorn is anxious for answers, and I would not keep him waiting."

"Very well, but you shall precede me," Gimli said, picking the shield up again and checking to see that his axe was secure in his belt. "A dwarf is not caught unawares twice in the same morning."

* * * *

"Mohart? Mohart, it is time to wake."

Imrahil watched closely with a level of scrutiny that mimicked the Eldar as his healer attempted to rouse Mohart from his dreams. The man certainly looked better than he had on previous days, and he stirred slightly in his sleep, seemingly reluctant to trade the world of dreams for the world of reality. A hint of impatience crept into Imrahil’s mood, but he quickly shoved it back down. Now was the time for many words and many questions. Impatience could not be tolerated or things of vital importance might be missed for things of haste.

"Mohart?" Lortere tried again, gently shaking the man’s arm. "Mohart, dawn comes and you have slumbered long."

A low groan emerged from the slumbering representative and his eyes fluttered. Imrahil decided that it was now time to assume a more direct role in the situation, and he stepped forward, waving the healer back. Taking a seat in the chair next to the bedside, he placed a hand on Mohart’s shoulder and squeezed, willing the man’s eyes to open completely.

"Mohart," Imrahil whispered, fixing his gaze on Mohart’s face with all the intensity of an elf. "Mohart, you would speak of Dashnir. What can you tell me of him? Come, for the hour grows late. Already we have wasted far too much time."

"Dashnir," Mohart mumbled, turning restlessly. "Darkness. Númenor."

Imrahil frowned, unconsciously tightening his grip on the man’s shoulder, and something within his mind clicked. _Númenor! Why did I not see it before?_ The image from his dream…the dead tree cloaked in a black shadow…he’d read about such things, but until now, he had not recalled the reference. Somewhere in the hidden scrolls of Dol Amroth, he’d read a tale of the elf for which this fortress had been named. After leaving Lothlórien in the hands of Celeborn and Galadriel, Amroth had dwelt for a short time in southern Lebennin and left a record of his experiences while waiting vainly for the coming of Nimrodel. It was in these records—a secret stash of Second and early Third Age history that not even the stewards of Gondor were privy to—that Imrahil had come upon the tale of the Black Númenóreans. And upon one of the many scrolls locked in the main tower’s vault, he had seen the symbol of the dead black tree.

"My prince?"

"Leave us!" Imrahil ordered sharply to his healer, but his eyes stayed on the face of Mohart, attempting to reach through the man’s waking dreams and pull him to full consciousness. Some distant part of him heard Lortere leave, but he kept his complete attention on Mohart for he suddenly realized how little time was left to him for action. "I need more information, delegate," he whispered, and in his voice could be heard a ring of command that Legolas and Aragorn might have likened to the commands of Glorfindel and Elrond. "Wake, Mohart, and tell me what you can of the Black Númenóreans!"

His words seemed to strike a chord within Mohart, and Imrahil sighed in relief as the man slowly opened his eyes, blinking in dazed confusion. "Prince Imrahil?" Mohart questioned, his brow furrowing as he tried to establish his surroundings. To the prince’s relief, his eyes were clear of the slafe weed that had dimmed his mind, and he seemed to have escaped his partial delirium. "Prince Imrahil, what happened?"

"A mistake," Imrahil said grimly, unwilling to divulge further details lest he lose Mohart to thoughts of retaliation. "I shall tell you of that later, but now I need you to answer my questions. During your ailment, you sought me out and warned me of Dashnir. He currently leads King Elessar and King Eomer into Harad. Are they in danger?"

Mohart’s eyes clouded with something akin to fear, though Imrahil had never before seen fear in the delegate of the Gartabo tribe. "They are in the greatest of dangers," Mohart hissed. "I have only recently learned this, but the Dark Lord’s influence in my land was not limited to demanding tribute and arms. There were those whom he sought, descendents of an ancient kingdom that some say was consumed by the sea, and these descendents he trained for they had powers and perception beyond those of ordinary men."

"Númenóreans," Imrahil murmured, watching Mohart closely for his reaction. "These men you speak of, they were descendents of those who fled the kingdom of Númenor."

"You know of this tale?" Mohart demanded.

"I know enough for my own needs," Imrahil answered evasively. Not even Aragorn knew of Dol Amroth’s scroll collection. Why should Mohart? "Tell me more of Sauron’s interest and how it relates to Dashnir."

"The Khurintu tribe, of course," Mohart spat, seeming to find the words distasteful. "Sauron was of course extremely interested in the tribes of warriors and raiders, but it seemed the Dark Lord paid more attention to Khurintu than he did to tribes like Warra or Portu. Captains for the forces of Harad were chosen primarily from Khurintu, and it was rumored that some members of that tribe were appointed to special positions within Mordor itself."

"And you suspect now that within Khurintu are descendents of the Númenóreans," Imrahil guessed. "And that explains Sauron’s interest in the tribe."

"We do not suspect, Prince Imrahil," Mohart said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We know. Rumors abound in the desert and as the time for the Gathering draws near, they increase in number. Most are harmless enough and lack substance, but of late, the head of my tribe has been troubled by stories concerning members of the Khurintu tribe, specifically Dashnir and the tribal head, Asbad. Messengers and spies reported that they had more contact with the servants of Sauron than was normal for tribal leaders. We sent men to look into these things. Most never returned. Those who did came with stories of shadows and fear, of things that men have no place in learning. Dark arts, Prince Imrahil," Mohart murmured, his voice dropping even lower. "Dark arts and elven sorcery."

"And Dashnir is a student of these arts?" Imrahil pressed, ignoring the part about _elven sorcery_ for now. Mohart’s ignorance could be corrected at a later date.

"His knowledge is deep. He has discovered forgotten keys to unlocking the powers of the forces that surround and bind us to Arda. And the tribal head, Asbad, is far worse than Dashnir. Together, they are becoming a powerful influence in the desert. We were all suspicious when it was the Khurintu tribe that first broached the idea of inviting Gondor and Rohan to the Gathering. We agreed, but my own tribe gave consent with reservations. Something is planned. I know not what, but my instinct tells me that Asbad and Dashnir have a great evil in store for King Elessar and King Eomer."

Imrahil sat back, silent and pondering. His dream was beginning to coalesce in his mind, and he was now linking it to the information provided by Dashnir. The burning white tree was the downfall of Gondor and the end of Isildur’s line. The broken black tree represented the Black Númenóreans who populated Harad. The voices he’d heard…they were also from within Harad. He’d heard Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli. The threat would not come to Pelargir or Lebennin. It would be in Harad itself. It only made sense. The Haradrim would be suspicious and distrustful if it were widely known that Asbad and Dashnir were students of ancient arts rooted in darkness, so to counter such superstitions, the Khurintu tribe would have to make a display of power. What better time to do it than at a Gathering? And what better way to do it than by destroying the kings of Gondor and Rohan? A picture that had been vague and unfocused for so long suddenly became acutely clear, and Imrahil knew he had to act now.

"I will need a guide," he said, fixing Mohart with a gaze that would cause an ordinary man to squirm. "Rest today and we will set out tonight. My forces and I shall ride into Harad after King Elessar and King Eomer. You will direct us among the hidden lakes. Know you of any way we can send word ahead of our arrival to alert the other tribes and ask for their assistance?"

Mohart blinked, surprised at the suddenness of the decision, but with Imrahil’s eyes boring into his soul, he quickly accepted what had been said—or rather, ordered—and searched his mind for an answer to Imrahil’s question. "Several years ago, sending word would have been possible," he eventually said. "But now, hawks of Khurintu and Warra control the desert. They will not allow other messenger birds. A rider could race ahead of us, not sparing his horse, and hope to trade for other horses at the hidden lakes. But the success of such a policy is subject to the whim of fate, and the message might arrive no sooner than we would. I fear there is very little we can do in spreading word in the desert. Information is slow in traveling, and it is for this reason that the Gathering is so important. We may all talk at once without dealing with delay."

"I suspected as much," Imrahil sighed, briefly releasing Mohart from his penetrating gaze. "Then our ride must be all the more swift. I will leave you now to rest. We shall depart tonight, and I will expect your presence in the main hall one hour before sunset. Until then, Mohart." And with that, the prince of Dol Amroth turned and left the room, not allowing the other to respond or protest in any way. In truth, he had been contemplating following Aragorn into the desert. Mohart’s information had added to Imrahil’s sense of foreboding, and he now felt it was absolutely necessary that he take his guard and ride to his king’s aid.

Yet so much time had already passed! It had been nearly a week since they’d left and they were undoubtedly nigh unto reaching Haradhur itself. Once there, the Khurintu tribe would not wait long to make its move and if additional troops were to be of any use, they must arrive as soon as possible. It was quite possible that they were already too late and that the only prudent course of action would be to prepare Gondor, Lebennin, and Belfalas for war with the desert.

But Imrahil refused to believe that Aragorn would allow himself to be beaten in Harad. The king hadn’t marched through the gates of the Morannon just to fall in the burning sand. It couldn’t be too late. There was always a chance and there was always hope, no matter how desperate or how frail that hope might be. Was not that true during the War of the Ring? The Rohirrim had believed themselves to be too late in riding to Gondor’s aid and had almost turned away upon reaching the Pelennor Fields. Fortunately, they did not and they joined the battle just as the City-gate fell, turning the tide against Sauron’s forces. And then there was the fate of Isildur’s Bane! In that instance, hope was of such a frail substance that the softest breath might have blown it away. Yet it had endured, and so had the West.

Thus, with these memories to back him, Imrahil hastened to summon his soldiers and begin preparations for a hard ride. There was still a chance to set things right, and the prince of Dol Amroth intended to see this chance through.

 

__

Abonnen. Gimli thêl sen erui—Later. Gimli intends this first.

__

Gimli ista—Gimli knows?

__

E ista. A edh istatha abthelg—He knows. And you will know shortly.

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Mashir issahrn ma hragel, wal hatisundri aqriib an ilmiaya—Tread the sand with care, or you will wander too far from the water. (Haradric) This is a proverb used most often as a veiled threat, though it does have other meanings.

__

Lathak yiqulu kith—So/thus say many. (Haradric)

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Elvellon—Elf-friend


	12. Troubled Minds, Troubled Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

" _Ú-glîr_?" Eomer asked, rolling the strange word around on his tongue. "And what does this mean?"

"It is the sundering of Ilúvatar’s song," Legolas sighed, refusing to meet Eomer’s eyes. "There is not time to explain all that this means, for such a discussion might well last several years. However, the situation it creates can be understood readily enough. While I am under _ú-glîr_ , I have not elven senses. I can see only what you can see. I can hear only what you can hear. I can feel only what you can feel. More than that is beyond my reach. I will not be able to warn our company if danger comes from afar."

"I have heard of _ú-glîr_ , Legolas," Aragorn said quietly, watching the elf with concern. When Legolas and Gimli had arrived at the tent, he had been somewhat surprised to note that the elf was covered in sand. Apparently, the sparring had not been to the prince’s liking and Aragorn now wondered just how much these new limitations were affecting Legolas. "Within Rivendell, records are kept of such dark spells. But I fear I remember little, for it was mentioned only in passing, and as it did not seem to threaten the elves today, I saw little reason for further study. There were too many other things that demanded my attention."

"Just how much of it do you remember?" Gimli questioned.

"Not enough," Aragorn answered, furrowing his brow and trying to recall all that he had committed to memory. "I am aware of its effects, I know it was used when Sauron fought a two-front war against Elrond in Imladris and Gil-galad in Lindon, but I fear I can remember no more."

"It matters not," Legolas said, shifting uncomfortably. "Rather, we must concern ourselves with discovering who was able to do this and what their intentions might be. One who has the ability to command powers not used since the Second Age is one to be feared, and we must be cautious."

"Do you have suspicions as to who has done this?" Eomer asked.

"Nay, for there is a blank in my memory," the elf murmured, looking away. "I remember almost nothing between the time the raiders began fleeing toward camp and the time I woke in the tent. I could have fallen beneath _ú-glîr_ during the middle of the skirmish but it is also possible for it to have happened toward the end."

"Still, there were a limited number of men involved, and our list of suspects is small," Gimli broke in, and Aragorn could detect a trace of frustration within the dwarf’s voice. Apparently, the sparing match had been taxing for Gimli as well as Legolas. "The spell would have been cast sometime during the battle," the dwarf continued. "And the only men around Legolas at the time were Dashnir, Garat, and a handful of raiders. It must be one of them."

"Unless this is something that can be done from a distance," Eomer pointed out.

"From what I know of it, the one who sunders an elf from Ilúvatar’s song must be in close proximity with his intended victim," Aragorn murmured. "Know you any differently, Legolas?"

The elf shook his head. "In this we are both impaired by limited knowledge, but, I think you have it aright. From what I can recall, he who casts _ú-glîr_ must be near the one who receives it."

"Which leaves us with Dashnir, Garat, or the raiders," Gimli said, repeating his earlier words. "I trust none of them, but there are some I would trust more than others and some who are more probable suspects than others. The raiders, for instance, would have had little time to act. Am I right in assuming that casting _ú-glîr_ requires at least a moment of peace?"

"Not a very long moment, but it does require intense concentration, or so I remember," Aragorn answered, sensing that Legolas was reluctant to say anymore on the matter. "And I suspect that whoever did this had at least one other to aid him. During the casting, though it requires only a small moment, the author of the spell is vulnerable to attack. And since this happened during a raid, it stands to reason that someone would have to stand guard while the other invoked _ú-glîr_."

"If that is true, then it seems that Dashnir and Garat are the most likely suspects," Eomer said. "They fought together before the tents, and it is rare to see one without the other. Aragorn, think you that we ought to question Garat on the events of that morning? More so than we already have?"

"Garat is not behind this. He may be involved and he might well have stood guard, but he is not the mover of events," Aragorn said, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes while he considered the facts as they were currently known. "I believe that role belongs to Dashnir, for in all their conversations with others, it is Dashnir who takes the lead. And I would hazard a guess that he was the one who knew the secrets behind _ú-glîr_. I cannot see Portu’s horse raiders knowing such a thing or taking the time to learn its requirements."

"Then let us act!" Gimli cried, surging to his feet. "If Dashnir can undo what has been done, let us take him and force him to remove _ú-glîr_."

"Think you that he would be willing to do so?" Legolas broke in softly. "I would be reluctant to place myself at his mercy if you were to somehow convince him to remove _ú-glîr_. I trust him no more than do you, and he may use an opportunity of vulnerability to act against you, Aragorn, or Eomer."

"Or to do something worse to Legolas," Aragorn sighed. "Understand, Gimli, that we do not face a normal man, here. Eomer and I have counseled together upon this, and though we are sadly lacking in information, one thing above all else has become clear to us. Dashnir is not a man to be underestimated. Until we know more, we cannot afford to act against him openly. Do you remember the hawk Legolas shot for us?"

"What of it?" Gimli asked, and Aragorn winced to hear the frustration and anger in the dwarf. He was having problems enough controlling his own emotions in addition to keeping Eomer in check. An irate dwarf was the last thing he needed.

"Think of the symbol we observed. The symbol of the Black Númenóreans. What does this suggest to you?"

"That remnants of an ancient enemy still linger in the desert," the dwarf answered.

"Indeed. Remnants of an enemy so ancient that their origins date back to the Second Age," Aragorn said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "Within their history, they have had sorcerers and conjurors capable of casting spells and wielding dark powers. During the Third Age, they were trained by Sauron and made captains over the forces of Harad. And we have evidence that at least some of their descendents have survived in the desert and also that they have taken up the symbols of their ancient lineage."

"And these men might well have the ability to cast _ú-glîr_ ," Gimli said, following Aragorn’s logic to its ultimate conclusion.

"And since our primary suspect is now Dashnir, it seems only reasonable to link him to the line of the Black Númenóreans," Eomer said. "Which makes dealing with him difficult. He has senses beyond those of an ordinary man and he is further advantaged by the fact that we are strangers in the desert where he is at home."

"What think you of his intentions?" Legolas asked.

"As for that, we do not know," Aragorn sighed. "We know he watches us closely and we know that he bears little good will for us, but we have not enough information to guess at what might be his ultimate goal. The most we have been able to do is to link both Dashnir and Garat to the raid yesterday morning."

"Such things Legolas and I already suspected," Gimli said. "But we are at a loss as to the goal of their involvement. Unless perhaps the sole purpose of the raid was to provide a distraction so that Dashnir might cast _ú-glîr_."

"That I doubt," Aragorn answered, watching Legolas shift uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. "Such an action seems extreme for such a purpose, grievous though it might be now. Rather, I believe we were tested. Our strengths were analyzed, our weaknesses were documented, and I would hazard to say that the results of our skirmish have been relayed to a higher power by means of hawks."

"A higher power?" Gimli wondered. "Then Dashnir is not his own master and works instead at another’s bidding?"

"Much as a king uses another to do his work," Eomer answered. "Whoever is the master behind Dashnir wishes to remain secret and to continue observing from a distance through Dashnir’s eyes and ears. In this, our delegate from Khurintu is only a pawn, albeit a powerful one."

"A powerful pawn only points to more danger," Legolas said quietly. " _Ú-glîr_ is not an easy spell and even the simple versions require years of study and a certain innate talent. If Dashnir is capable of such power as a pawn, the master will be capable of far more."

"Then let us approach the pawn before we meet the master," Gimli said. "I would have him know our wrath at what has been done!"

"Have you listened to nothing, Gimli?" Eomer asked. "This is a man with the same lineage as Aragorn if you were to trace it back far enough. He cannot be contested so simply and with so little concrete evidence."

"Beyond which, the customs of this land are different from what we are used to," Aragorn added. "Were we to accuse him of endangering our lives and the lives of the rest of the escorting Haradrim, we would challenge his honor with no substantial evidence to back our claims. We would do nothing for our own cause, Dashnir could easily deny any involvement, and we would give away our hand. As it currently stands, Dashnir does not know what we may or may not suspect. Let us keep it that way until we have a better understanding of his intentions."

"His intentions are no good, I can tell you that right now," Gimli protested, his voice beginning to rise in anger. "He has attacked one of our company and done him a grievous harm. I refuse to sit idle and let such an act go unpunished! Customs or no, there are certain laws that all must respect, and a guest of another land is not wronged with impunity!"

"Listen to what you say, Gimli," Legolas broke in, his voice strained. "Your words are words of war, yet we have no basis for an attack other than our own reasoning. And while that may be sound, it is not justification to confront Dashnir. Aragorn has told us that such an action would do nothing for us. Would you suggest physically assaulting the man instead?"

"I would," Gimli said, glaring at the elf. "And I am surprised that you are not supporting me in this. Think of what has been done to you!"

"I do! Gimli, by the Valar, how could I not? It is as though I have lost part of myself, but remember that this was done to me, not to you," Legolas said. "In this Aragorn speaks wisely and we should hearken to his counsel. We must be alert and wary, but we must also be cautious and make no sudden moves. Look past your anger, my friend. Grateful as I am for it, I need not your concern. It is clouding your thoughts and I do not wish to worry over your safety as well as my own, though considering you are a dwarf, doubtless I shall have to protect you regardless."

Gimli spluttered indignantly, but Legolas’s calculated words had the desired effect and some of the dwarf’s rage visibly drained from him. Aragorn sighed in relief, grateful that the elf’s mind was still alert despite his new limitations. At the moment, Legolas was probably thinking more clearly than was Gimli.

"So are we agreed in this?" Aragorn asked, looking specifically at the dwarf. "We take no actions until we know more."

Legolas and Eomer nodded, but Gimli did nothing for a moment, appearing to battle between reason and rage. At length, he also nodded but it was with great reluctance. "For now, Aragorn, I will restrain myself. But if more is done to provoke us, this dwarf will not stay his axe."

"Nor will I stay my sword," Aragorn promised with a grim smile, resting his hand upon Anduril’s hilt. "Your enemy is my enemy, son of Glóin, and I swear to you that we will stand together against further attacks upon this company."

"So be it then," Gimli said with a short bow. "I accept your vow and return it, son of Arathorn. We act together. And though the forces that oppose us be great and terrible, our wrath shall eclipse them all."

"And a dwarf’s wrath is great to behold," Legolas added with a small smile. "I discovered this in the deep places of Fangorn."

Gimli wheeled on his friend so suddenly that Aragorn found himself reflexively reaching for his sword. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that!" the dwarf growled.

"I said naught but that I had seen your great and terrible wrath in Fangorn," Legolas answered innocently, yet there was a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes.

"And what would be your feelings if I were to casually mention that I had seen your fierce and steadfast bravery within the Glittering Caves of Aglarond," Gimli returned.

"What good would that do you? All know of my fierce and steadfast bravery," Legolas answered, but there was now a note of warning in his voice. Aragorn smiled and shook his head, reassured that things were beginning to return to normal. There were still problems, but so long as Gimli and Legolas could argue, such problems seemed to diminish.

With the air of tension and uncertainty partially abated by the jests of elf and dwarf, they turned their talk to other things, specifically lighter matters such as the path they would take next and the creatures who endured the desert. Eventually, weariness conquered them and one by one, they dropped off to sleep. Aragorn was the last to rest, and for a while, he lay on his back with eyes fixed to the thick cloth that hung above them. They were still lacking much information. He was fairly certain that Dashnir was of the blood of Númenor and he was also fairly certain that Dashnir was the man responsible for casting _ú-glîr_ over Legolas. But he was still at a loss as to both motives and intentions. Revenge, certainly, for there had been bad blood between Elendil’s descendents and the Black Númenóreans for years, but what form would this revenge take? That was something he had yet to learn and he could only hope that they would be able to find the answer before the answer found them.

Still, it was too late to turn back now, and even if they could not unravel this mystery in time, they were all experienced warriors. Whatever came their way could be handled. Reassured by these convictions, Aragorn finally turned onto his side and abandoned his thoughts for the world of dreams, quickly falling into a deep and restful sleep.

A few minutes later, Legolas began to toss and turn, moaning slightly at the onset of ill dreams.

* * * *

Mohart was not a stupid man. Stupid men did not survive the harsh land of Harad, nor did they rise to positions of power in wealthy tribes as Mohart had done. His was a shrewd mind, and though he did not possess Dashnir’s cunning nor would he ever have Garat’s talent for manipulation, he had an intelligence worthy of respect in its own right, and he could see a situation for what it was, not for what it appeared to be. As per Imrahil’s instructions, Mohart had rested quietly for the bulk of the day, but during this time, his mind had been hard at work in attempting to unravel and decipher what Imrahil had left unsaid in their conversation. By the time the sun began its descent and evening drew nigh, Mohart had come to several perturbing conclusions.

First, he had been drugged. The effects were unmistakable and the signals from his body indicated it could have been nothing else. He was groggy, he was sluggish, and he felt a certain detachment from the real world. What he didn’t understand was how he had come to be drugged or who had done the drugging. To his knowledge, he had given neither King Eomer nor King Elessar cause for suspicion and consequently no justification for drugging him. Prince Imrahil had played host to Mohart before and had never expressed distrust or ill will before, removing him from the list of suspects. Dashnir? That seemed more likely, but it was still rather improbable. Dashnir had been presented with numerous opportunities to not only drug but completely eliminate Mohart, and he had taken none of them. Why would he drug him during dinner? It was not in keeping with Dashnir’s general practices, though now that Mohart considered it, he could see Dashnir killing him over dinner. But whatever potion he’d been given had not been fatal. None of Imrahil’s healers had expressed any significant worry during Mohart’s illness, and he judged that he had never been in any great danger. This more or less eliminated Dashnir, for the man never did things in moderation. All or nothing was his general policy, and if he intended to remove a potentially troublesome rival, he did so thoroughly.

This led him to his second conclusion: His drugging had been an accident. It was a stretch of logic, but it was the only the answer that made sense as well as fitting all the facts. Dashnir had not drugged him or he would now be dead. Garat had not drugged him because Garat preferred an open confrontation to sleight of hand. The other delegates from Harad were too intimidated by Mohart’s standing in the Gartabo tribe to even consider acting against him. This left Imrahil, Elessar, Eomer, any of their men, the elf, and the dwarf. Mohart seriously doubted that one of the men had done it, for he had witnessed the loyalty they had for their commanders. The elf and dwarf he eliminated as having no motive, and Eomer and Elessar fell into that category as well. This left Imrahil. It was true that Imrahil also had no cause for action against Mohart, but he was not entirely fond of Dashnir and Garat. He might have been acting against one of them. And Imrahil had also been loath to reveal details on Mohart’s condition, further implicating him as the unintentionally guilty party.

Having settled these facts and conclusions in his mind, Mohart was now left with one question. Had the drugging accident been a coincidence or had someone else intervened?

Mohart sighed, rubbed his head, and stretched, watching the sun begin to sink into the horizon from the large window in his room. Such a question Imrahil could answer—or at least have a better guess than Mohart could hazard—but would the prince be forthcoming with his information? Gartabo’s delegate grimaced and sighed. Imrahil could be as close-mouthed as a sand lizard that had latched onto a cobra. If Imrahil did not want to volunteer answers, it would be difficult to extract them from him. But the time for secrecy had passed, and if Asbad and Dashnir were to be stopped, forces must align against them and set aside issues of distrust.

A knock at the door broke his concentration and Mohart strode away from the window and pulled the heavy oak open. Before him, a servant bowed slightly. "My lord prince has requested your presence in the main hall within the hour."

"I shall come shortly," Mohart answered. The servant bowed again, turned, and left. With a shake of his head, Mohart closed the door and returned to the window, watching with some fascination as the sun sank toward the sea. It was no wonder that rumors spoke of Imrahil watching the sea to the exclusion of everything else. Such a powerful force of nature was to be treated with awe and reverence. Almost it was a thing to be worshipped.

After a few moments and with great reluctance, Mohart pulled himself away from the window and ordered his mind. He was a representative from the Gartabo tribe and a member of its ruling council. It would not do for him to appear weak before Imrahil, and that man could read others with a skill Mohart had seen nowhere else until meeting King Elessar. It was a talent that both seemed to share, and it meant that one had to exercise extreme caution in dealing with them. Composing his face and trying to thrust away all feelings of unease, Mohart donned the scarves that protected his head in the desert and left his room.

Dol Amroth was not a particularly intricate fortress, but for one used to the open desert, it was a rather baffling maze. Mohart had to retrace his steps twice before finding a doorway that led to the inner courtyard where the main hall stood separate from the rest of Dol Amroth. His sharp eyes swept the grounds, ever alert for potential threats, and he noted the presence of many armed men. They gathered in small groups around the hall, speaking quietly amongst themselves, yet there was an air of restlessness about them. Mohart did a quick count of their numbers and blinked as he realized that there were more than fifty men milling about. Did Imrahil truly intend to take such a large force into the desert? And if so, how would he see to their needs as far as food and water went? Such a large force would require a number of pack animals and Mohart did not think that Dol Amroth had a particularly large supply of those.

__

No doubt I will find my answers within the hall, Mohart thought, making for the large structure that Gimli had decided would have better served men as a citadel. For his part, Mohart had no specific qualms with the architecture but only a general unease and a vague feeling of claustrophobia that came over him every time he was forced to enter the hall. It was strange, actually. Within his room in the fortress, he was fine. So long as he had a window that looked out on the sea, the sense of closure did not overcome him. But within the courtyard and especially within the main hall, he felt cut off from the outside world and trapped. There were windows, but they looked upon tall walls and ramparts and Mohart could not help but feel that the world was closing in upon him. Guarding firmly against his trepidation with a mental discipline that would have impressed an elf, he took a steadying breath and entered the dreaded hall.

Imrahil was talking with some men who appeared to be captains or commanders of some kind judging from their armor and their stance. The prince looked up at Mohart’s arrival, nodded slightly by way of acknowledgement, and then went back to his discussion. Mohart could not help but feel miffed. After all, he was no page or serf that came and went at this man’s beck and call. He was an influential leader within his own tribe and as such had become accustomed to respect and notice. Still, this was Imrahil’s realm, and as such, Mohart accorded the prince some latitude. But after entering Harad, this kind of behavior could not be tolerated. Not only was it embarrassing but it could be dangerous. The moment one man lost power, another rose to take his place, and Mohart could not afford to be caught in a moment of weakness.

"My apologies, Mohart," Imrahil said, catching the man slightly off guard. He had not heard him approach.

"Apology accepted, honored one," Mohart said carefully, wondering how to broach the subject of proper decorum within Harad.

"I realize it was a slight to your position, but as we are not yet within the desert, I judged I would be able to finish the preparations for the ride. With that out of the way, we may proceed quickly. Have you had aught to eat today?"

Mohart blinked, somewhat surprised by Imrahil’s perceptiveness. "No, I have not," he found himself answering, caught up by gray eyes that seemed to command respect and obedience.

"Then let us partake of what substance we may find now," Imrahil said, clapping the other on the shoulder and leading the way out of the main hall. "My men are almost ready and we shall leave soon, but there is time to break your fast and I judge that the riding will be easier that way."

"How many men are you taking into the desert, honored one?" Mohart asked, glancing around the courtyard at the gathered soldiers. "It may not be my place to ask, but I feel I should warn you against excess."

"Your warnings do not go unheeded, Mohart, for that is one of the reasons I requested your presence on this journey. Over fifty men I have waiting to ride, but of those, only thirty will actually cross into Harad. Ten shall be sent to Minas Tirith and the rest shall stand guard on the border with men out of Pelargir. If we are unsuccessful at Haradhur, Minas Tirith must be warned ere Asbad and Dashnir make their move against Gondor."

Not really knowing what to say in response to that, Mohart nodded thoughtfully and then decided to turn to a different set of questions. "When I woke this morning, I asked you what had caused my illness. You answered that it was a mistake. Can you tell me more of that?"

"I fear my facts are unclear," Imrahil said after a moment’s hesitation, glancing sharply at Mohart with piercing eyes.

"Ah. But do you deny that I was drugged? And that regardless of the intentions, it was you who did the drugging?"

The prince of Dol Amroth frowned, taken aback by Mohart’s directness, and then a smile slowly formed. "I had forgotten the way of the desert. If you wish to know something, you cannot afford to be subtle. My thanks for reminding me. Doubtless such knowledge will be useful on this journey."

"You are welcome, but you have not answered my question yet," Mohart said, stopping and turning to look at the prince. "Am I to assume by your silence that you did indeed drug me?"

Measuring eyes studied the delegate from Gartabo, and then Imrahil nodded slightly. "You were drugged, and unfortunately, the drug was placed by my hand. But know that you were not the intended recipient and that sometime between the placing of the drug and the drinking of the wine, your goblet was switched."

"Then it was not by mishap," Mohart murmured. "Another stepped in."

Imrahil cocked his head to the side in a gesture that was strangely elven. "I am afraid I do not understand your last words. Will you explain?"

"You are certain you placed the drug correctly?" Mohart asked. At Imrahil’s somewhat indignant nod, the man sighed. "I have, then, another question to ask before I answer. Was Dashnir the intended victim?"

"He was."

"I thought as much. I have said that Dashnir is not as other men, but perhaps you do not understand the full magnitude of what I meant when I spoke." Mohart shook his head and grimaced, attempting to find words to explain what he knew of Dashnir’s abilities. Unfortunately, his grasp of Westron, though more than adequate for diplomacy and casual conversation, was not up to a detailed talk of the arcane or the darker arts. "He knows things that a man has no right to know," Mohart eventually said. "He sees things and hears things that are beyond us. His senses are more developed and even your elves might learn from his intuition. If you intended to drug him, I suspect he realized it and so switched the goblets. The fact that he gave me the drug says much."

"He then took command of the delegation," Imrahil said, fear growing in his gray eyes. "We have played right into his hands." The prince cursed and turned away, rubbing his brow. "Mohart, know you of any way that we may alert King Elessar and King Eomer? Or even members of your own tribe who might lend us their aid?"

"Not until we are in the desert and closer to Haradhur," Mohart said grimly. "But it is not yet too late, honored one. Dashnir is arrogant, and this weakness may prove to be his undoing."

"Would that we could be certain of that," Imrahil murmured. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then seemed to shake off his ill mood with elven speed. "Come, Mohart. I promised you a quick meal and I will not fail in this. But then we must be off and we must ride with a speed that will put the Rohirrim to shame. As I do not fail you, I will not fail my king. And no matter the consequences, I will see myself at his side ere the last stroke of this treachery falls."

* * * *

Eomer was tired of waking with the feeling that he had just been thoroughly soaked. It was only their second evening in this cursed desert and already he despaired of ever feeling a cool breeze again. The air hung stale and musty within their tent and the stifling heat took his breath. Running a hand through his sweaty, golden hair, Eomer sighed and sat up slowly. It was a wonder he did not lose all the fluids in his body to perspiration.

Glancing around the tent, he was surprised to notice that Aragorn was still asleep. Could it be that the questions and concerns of this journey had finally wearied the king of Gondor to the point that his legendary stamina no longer supported him? Eomer smiled slightly at the thought. It was something of a comfort to know that Aragorn was not perfect. He knew this already, of course, and their conversation from the previous evening was certainly proof of Aragorn’s human failings, but in small things, particularly things requiring physical endurance, it was an added consolation to know that Aragorn was a man and that he did tire.

Eomer’s eyes continued to sweep the tent and he came to his second surprise of the evening. Gimli had disappeared. This was especially odd given the fact that the dwarf was a notoriously late sleeper and had been somewhat winded from his morning spar with Legolas. Where could the dwarf have gone? Turning to the last section of the tent, Eomer stopped and stared as he found surprise number three.

Gimli sat cross-legged next to Legolas, his head bowed in sleep, with one hand upon the haft of his axe and the other hand upon the elf’s shoulder. Frowning, Eomer studied the pair and wondered how this had come to be.

Muttered words and a muffled groan caught his attention and Eomer turned back to watch as Aragorn stretched slightly and slowly opened his eyes. Eomer’s first instinct was to use this situation as an opportunity to point out that Aragorn was not always the first one awake, but curiosity and concern had gotten the better of the young king this evening. "Aragorn?" he called, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Gimli or Legolas.

Aragorn sighed, ran a hand through his thick mane of hair, and glanced in the horse lord’s direction. Something flickered through the dark gray eyes and Eomer had the strange impression that it was a feeling akin to shame, possibly for not waking first. But whatever the cause, Eomer had no interest in pursuing it, for his mind was already working on a different problem.

"Aragorn, what cause would Gimli have for guarding Legolas in his sleep?"

The king of Gondor blinked, which was the closest he ever came to looking surprised, and then turned his eyes toward the elf and dwarf. This elicited yet another blink and Aragorn sat up, frowning as he considered the two. "How long have they been thus?"

"I woke only moments ago," Eomer confessed. "I did not hear Gimli move during the day, nor was I aware of any threat that might make him act so."

"Strange," Aragorn murmured, getting to his feet and moving over to elf and dwarf. Cautiously, well aware that Gimli’s hand rested on his axe, the king touched his shoulder and whispered quietly. "Gimli? Gimli, the time has come to wake." Not about to miss the action, Eomer stood and moved behind Aragorn, watching the proceedings from a safe distance. The dwarf shifted minutely and Aragorn tightened his grip on Gimli’s shoulder. "Wake, Gimli."

Growling something rather uncomplimentary in his own tongue, Gimli tried to pull away, but Aragorn was firm, keeping a tight hold on the dwarf. Eventually opening his eyes to see what force restrained him, Gimli frowned and glanced around, apparently somewhat disoriented by the fact that he was sitting up and far away from his usual resting place.

"Gimli?" Aragorn questioned gently, releasing the dwarf’s shoulder.

Gimli yawned, dropping his axe and stretching his arms high above his head. "Is it time to leave?" he asked, noting that Eomer was also awake.

"We will leave soon, yes, but that was not the reason I woke you," Aragorn said. "Do you know how you came to be over here?"

Gimli glanced down at Legolas and grimaced. "The elf was keeping me awake and I knew of no other way to keep him quiet," he eventually answered, his voice becoming gruff.

"He was keeping you awake?" Eomer echoed.

The dwarf shrugged awkwardly and stood, picking up his axe and sliding it into his belt. "Watch for a moment. Perhaps he will show you what I mean." And saying this, Gimli returned to his own collection of supplies and took a long drink from his water skin.

Exchanging confused looks with Aragorn, Eomer started to go after him but stopped at a soft murmuring behind him. Turning back around, he watched as Legolas began to move restlessly from side to side, mumbling incoherently in Sindarin and tensing as though preparing for an attack. Kneeling beside the prince, the king of Rohan watched in fascination as beads of perspiration began to form across the elf’s brow and his hands clenched at his sides. Legolas’s eyes, open in elven sleep, were growing hard with a look of horror and fear.

"This is what you meant?" Aragorn asked, looking sharply at Gimli. "Why did you not wake me?"

"For the same reason that I did not wake him," Gimli answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You needed your rest. Nor was your assistance required, for I found a solution to the problem."

"And that solution was?"

Looking rather self-conscious, Gimli wandered back over, knelt next to Legolas, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. The elf stiffened and then quieted, dropping slowly into a more peaceful sleep. "He seems comforted by an outside touch," Gimli whispered with a sigh. "Sometimes it is a while before he realizes that another is beside him, but when he does get it through his thick elven head that he isn’t alone, his rest becomes easier."

"When did this start?" Eomer wondered.

"Perhaps an hour or so after I fell asleep," Gimli answered, standing again and shaking his head. "In truth, I was not certain of the time, but I can tell you that the heat was nearly unbearable." He seemed about to say more but was interrupted when Legolas began to toss and turn again in uneasy dreams. "It usually takes longer for the nightmares to set in," Gimli said softly as though speaking to himself.

The elf moaned as if in pain and began to whisper quiet words. " _Gûr_ ," he murmured. " _Gûr an pân. Dúath a naeg_.

Beside him, Aragorn shivered and Eomer shot the other king a questioning look. "What does he say?"

Aragorn grimaced and shook his head. "His sleep is troubled, and his speech is dark. He talks of death. Death and pain."

"And shadow," Gimli added, placing a hand upon the elf’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shake. As before, Legolas quieted beneath the dwarf’s touch, but this time, the tension in his face did not recede. "Early this morning he likened _ú-glîr_ to a shadow over his senses, and I wonder if that same shadow pervades his dreams," the dwarf continued, his voice growing solemn. "He suffers, Aragorn. We cannot allow this to continue."

"We have no means of reversing what has been done," Aragorn sighed. "Did he say aught else during the day?"

"His speech then was much the same as his speech now," Gimli answered. "He cried against shadows and death. I could understand most of his talk and it centered around a great darkness as though he feared it would consume him."

"And that may not be far from the truth," Aragorn murmured, standing and considering the elf. "Wake him, Gimli. He has slept long enough and I suspect he will be glad of a reprieve from his dreams."

"Aragorn, a moment please," Eomer broke in, standing and moving away from elf and dwarf. Gimli didn’t seem to notice as he was now attempting to rouse Legolas. Aragorn gave Eomer a curious look and then followed. "You say the Haradrim respect force," Eomer whispered, his voice low.

"They respect strength, if that is what you mean," Aragorn answered.

"Strength or force, it matters not because either way we are seen as weak in their eyes. Our lack of action on the part of Legolas’s suffering is not a show of strength. I agree with Gimli. We must do something."

"And what would you do, son of Eomund?"

"Something that will impress upon the Haradrim our strength and will," Eomer answered. This was something of a reversal for him as before retiring for bed he had been convinced that Aragorn’s policy of waiting was best. But after seeing Gimli beside Legolas this morning, he had decided that regardless of whatever customs the Haradrim might have, this was not something they could set to the side. "Legolas will not be able to hide this problem for long, and we cannot cover for him indefinitely," he continued, trying to structure his reasoning in a way that might persuade Aragorn. "Sooner or later, it shall be discovered that we have been attacked and have done nothing in retaliation."

"We discussed this problem earlier and found no solution. If memory serves, I recall coming to an agreement that we could do nothing until more information presented itself. Have you now changed your mind? Or have you any new thoughts to add?"

Eomer couldn’t forbear bristling at Aragorn’s authoritative tone, and what made it worse was the fact that Aragorn was right. Eomer had no ready answers and he was quite out of his element when it came to elves. Aragorn knew far more and if he didn’t know what to do, how should a horse-lord from Rohan set things right? And when even Legolas admitted there was no immediate solution…

"I understand your frustration," Aragorn said quietly, catching Eomer’s arm and squeezing it slightly. "Think you that I find any joy in this? Legolas has been my friend for many years now and my heart aches at the very thought of what has befallen him. But no matter how hard I yearn to undo what has been done, it is not within my power. It is not within Gimli’s power. And it is not within your power."

"And so we wait?" Eomer demanded bitterly.

"We wait and we watch," Aragorn said, fixing the other king with a sharp gaze. "And in the meantime, we take no rash actions for such things might mar more than they would help. Legolas is the not the only one affected by this darkness. Do you not sense it? By closing Ilúvatar’s song to him, our own perceptions and senses have been harmed. We wonder that we do not think clearly and it is due to this shadow."

"But that is all the more reason to act!" Eomer pressed, though he knew in his heart that there was truly nothing to be done. "If you say we have all been rendered vulnerable by this, then we are fools if we do nothing."

"I said not that we have been rendered vulnerable," Aragorn countered with a steely glint in his eyes. "I said we have been harmed. But a blow to the shield arm will not stop the sword, and neither shall it stop us. Patience, Eomer. Our time will come."

"And here is Master Sluggard now."

Eomer and Aragorn turned around as Gimli helped a disoriented Legolas to his feet. The elf was blinking rapidly and shaking his head as though trying to orient himself. Catching the looks that were directed his way, Legolas waved the others off, ran shaking fingers through his hair, and ducked out of the tent.

"Does he know the sun is still up?" Eomer asked, watching the shadow of the elf fade away from the tent wall.

"I think he hopes the sensory overload of light and heat will pull him from the dream world and give him an anchor to the real world," Aragorn murmured, pursing his lips in thought. He turned and sought one of his saddlebags, rifled through its contents for a moment, and then seemed to nod in satisfaction. Turning back to Gimli and Eomer, he gestured toward their own bags. "Let us pack so that we may be ready to ride soon. Tonight we travel to Lake Nurnein and the distance is great. We must depart early enough that the horses may be spared during the journey."

Eomer nodded absently, still watching the tent flap where Legolas had disappeared. "Should someone go after him?"

"I would advise against it," Gimli answered with a sigh. "He woke in an ill humor this morning and will need a moment before he is able to hold civil discourse with anyone. He should be given several more minutes, and then if he does not return, I shall follow that flighty elf myself."

Eomer grimaced but nodded, accepting Gimli as a reliable source on Legolas’s needs. Yet he could not help but feel like a common soldier on this trip. Aragorn knew much about Harad and was always a step or two ahead of everyone in his reasoning and suspicions. Gimli seemed to know almost all there was to know of elves—or at least Legolas—and certainly knew more of the prince’s current condition than did Eomer. And as for Legolas, he was nearly as bad as Aragorn in logical deductions. Even without his elven senses, it seemed that he heard and saw a great deal more than his mortal comrades did. Perhaps it was his perpetual elven aloofness that gave this impression, but true or untrue, it did not help Eomer. He felt useless, as though he were a young page permitted to ride with the nobles.

"Eomer? Is aught wrong?"

Shoving his anger and frustration to the back of his mind, Eomer shook his head, shot a somewhat apologetic glance at Aragorn, and turned to pack his own supplies. But the spark of indignation that had been kindled within Eomer’s heart could not be so easily doused. It smoldered in a fitful silence just below the king's conscious thoughts, and when Gimli left to search for Legolas and Aragorn went to fill water skins, the feeling of weakness returned to Eomer. He was left with the packing and sorting of baggage while others went to perform more vital tasks.

__

I will prove myself on this journey, Eomer vowed, a hard glint coming into his eyes. Clenching his hand into a fist, he smote the earth and cursed quietly in the language of the Rohirrim. _I will prove myself, and the sons of Eorl shall win great renown in this wasted land. Gondor is not the only kingdom in Middle Earth, and it is long past the time when Rohan should have risen to claim its own glory._

 

__

Ú-glîr—Translated, it would mean something like "without song." For a more comprehensive explanation of it, check Chapter 10.

__

Gûr an pân. Dúath a naeg—Death for all. Shadow and pain.


	13. Through a Glass, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

_For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known._   
1 Corinthians 13:12   
Authorized King James Version 

_Why is it that the nights which are hardest are also the nights which are longest?_ Legolas sighed and shook his head, turning his eyes to the twinkling stars and wondering how men survived in a world that did not hold the true beauty and wonder of starlight. To diminished senses, the twinkling points in the heavens were no more than that—points. Dots. Pinpricks of light. They held little joy or dance and merely watched the world as a soldier might watch a dangerous pass. For the elves, however, the stars were beacons of hope and guardians of song. Their eternal dance in the night was one of joy and thanksgiving. Leaping and flashing with an inner fire, they sang of years long past, spoke of loves long gone, and whispered of dreams long faded. They were a gateway to younger days when the world was fresh and unspoiled. They were a reminder to the elves of a place where the past still lived, a land hidden by the sea and forbidden to all but the Eldar. They were a brief glimpse of the Undying Lands, gracing Middle Earth with their sparkling light and consoling those elves who yet lingered. Were it not for starlight, most of the elves could not have endured the hardships of Arda and would have departed long ago. 

But such joy was now lost to Legolas, and he felt an overwhelming emptiness consume him as he lowered his head and closed his eyes to the stars. They were only lights now, like so many watch fires on a distant fortress that none could approach. _And perhaps that is how my people seem to men who are unlearned_ , the elf mused, trying to distract his thoughts. _Perhaps we are also distant and impossible to touch. Perhaps I better understand why they spread ill rumors of Lothlórien and Rivendell, or why even in Gondor, few men venture into southern Ithilien, though we do not bar the way._ Legolas sighed, pondering over this. If this were so, then it was possible to overcome that distance as men like Aragorn and Faramir had clearly demonstrated. And if they could overcome the distance that separated men from elves, why could not Legolas overcome the distance that separated him from starlight? _Because men are not hindered by unnatural shadow as I am_ , he told himself, feeling the bitter grip of despair creep over his heart. 

"You are quiet tonight, Master Elf. Is it possible that you have found a song in the silence?" 

Somewhat startled by the question, Legolas paused and considered how best to answer the dwarf that rode behind him. "Nay," he said at length. "I fear that for me, this desert is a void. A dark abyss into which I fall." 

"Yesterday you filled this void with words," Gimli said, shifting his weight on Faensul’s back as he tried to lean about and look at Legolas’s face. "Why have you not done so tonight?" 

"Perhaps I grow used to this," the elf murmured, "though I shudder to think that I have forgotten the song of Ilúvatar so quickly. Perhaps, instead, I have found a reprieve from the silence through inner thoughts and contemplation." 

"As if the elves need any more of that," Gimli snorted. "It is no wonder you live still in the trees, for you never took action to improve your situation. But you have been thinking and contemplating for the bulk of the night, Legolas, and that is long even for you. Is there anything you would like to share? Or is there anyway I may be of service?" 

"Do you seek to come to yet another understanding?" the prince asked. "Or was our discussion last night too much for you?" 

"I had hoped some things were already understood, but it seems you have forgotten much already. An elf’s mind is a flighty thing," Gimli retorted. 

"And a dwarf’s mind is unable to handle more than a single idea at once," Legolas returned. "It is entirely possible, my friend, that I am simply in a contemplative mood tonight and that my silence has nothing to do with my condition." 

"Of course it is entirely possible," Gimli said. "But that is not the case, is it?" 

The elf sighed and shook his head, realizing that the dwarf would not be deterred. "I was thinking of the stars," Legolas said simply, deciding to skip the usual prelude to a meaningful conversation with his friend and arrive quickly at the point. The sooner they addressed this, the sooner they could move past it. Gimli’s dwarven tenacity was beginning to wear on the elf’s nerves and he hoped to placate his friend’s concerns quickly this night. 

"The stars?" Gimli echoed. He shook his head and grimaced. "If it is not trees, it is stars, and if it is neither trees nor stars, you cannot think of it." 

"At least elves are able to consider two items. Dwarves think only of gems." 

"And metals," Gimli said. "Two things. Add into that the fact that we actually _do_ something with gems and metals and you open an entire world of analysis and comprehension that far surpasses the limitations of your feeble elvish mind." 

"Elves think also of song, and in that you have far more analytical skills than would ever be required of metal work." Legolas stopped and went back over what he had just said. _Song. And now I am without it. It may be that Gimli is right. Perhaps without Ilúvatar’s song, elves truly are nothing. Perhaps we are so dependent on our connection to the song that breathes life into all things that when bereft of it, we become less than even the Orcs. For without the song, do we truly have purpose?_

"Legolas, tell me of your dreams." 

The elf blinked, unsure of what to make of this abrupt change in the conversation. "My dreams?" 

"It seemed to me that you did not rest peacefully last night and that ill dreams disturbed your sleep. Share them with me, Legolas." 

Gimli’s voice was soft but insistent, and Legolas recognized a note of extreme stubbornness in the dwarf’s request. And in light of all that Gimli had already done for him on this journey, how could he refuse his friend anything? And yet… "Do you truly wish to know, _elvellon_? I do not see how the telling of dreams will help." 

The dwarf chuckled and Legolas could feel him shaking his head. "A very wise hobbit once told me that a burden borne alone is twice the weight of a burden borne together, even if that burden cannot be wholly shared with another." 

A wistful smile crept over the elf’s face and he sighed slightly. "Frodo learned much on his journey. Would that such lessons could have been learned at a lesser cost to him. And would that the destruction of the Ring had not come at such a high price." 

"He saved us all," Gimli murmured, caught up in memories of the laughing hobbit that had frequented Rivendell’s paths and the maimed, somber hobbit that had been brought out of Mordor by Gandalf and Gwaihir. "In spite of everything, he became the hero that Middle Earth needed." The dwarf fell silent for a moment and then seemed to shake himself, directing his attention back to Legolas. "But he could not have done all that he did without the help of Samwise. He needed another to help bear his burden, even if that burden could not truly be shared. And I now say the same of you. You cannot save yourself without another’s help. And if you will not allow me, than at least allow Aragorn or Eomer." 

"What would you know, Gimli?" the elf asked quietly, glancing over his shoulder at the dwarf. "And what would you have me share?" 

"I would know what troubles you in your sleep. I would share the burden of your dreams." 

Legolas sighed and wondered if he could convince Gimli to ride with Aragorn tomorrow and so avoid further probing conversations. Of course, then he would also have to convince Aragorn to take Gimli and then both would question why and that would only lead to further complications. No, it seemed better to simply accept fate and acknowledge the fact that he was gifted with a very stubborn, very insistent, very dwarven friend. "The beginning of the dream is always the same," Legolas started, his voice soft and thoughtful. He felt Gimli lean forward to better hear and the elf resigned himself to the fact that he could not get out of this. "I am standing alone in the desert. It is night, and yet there is neither moon nor stars. It is not a cloud that masks the sky but a darkness that flows as ink. And it begins to move toward the earth, taking all that stands in its way and staining it with its foul shadow." 

"Does this darkness have a source?" Gimli asked. 

"I know not," Legolas whispered, rubbing strands of Faensul’s mane between his fingers. "I have never discovered it before I am taken. It is cold, Gimli. Cold and silent. In a word, it is death, but it is also more than that. It is a trap that ensnares and attacks. It…" Legolas trailed off, for once in his life at a loss for words. 

"What happens when it reaches you?" the dwarf asked, his voice quiet as a soothing sigh. 

"It…it consumes me. I am engulfed in it, and I can hear laughter. Fell laughter that rejoices in my fall and mocks my weakness. And then the darkness spreads, taking me with it as one by one it seizes everything. Everything and everyone. Aragorn, Eomer, you, Ithilien, Gondor, Rohan. All is swallowed up. And within this darkness…" the elf shuddered, his memories forcing him to relive the terror of his dreams. "Cold and death. It is like a thing of slime that grasps and clutches. And the more it is fought, the more it clings. It is smothering and my thoughts are tainted by its presence. I know not if this makes sense to you, Gimli, but…I can think of no other way to describe it. And I cannot stop this dream! It is unlike any dream I have ever had before. I have no control, and such should not be the case for an elf." 

"Is it an affect of _ú-glîr_ or think you this is intentionally sent to you from the one who cast _ú-glîr_?" 

"I do not know enough," Legolas answered, tightening his fist. Faensul snorted in protest as some of his mane was caught up in the elf’s grip and Legolas quickly relaxed his hand and stroked the stallion’s neck, soothing him and speaking gentle words. The horse eventually quieted, though he bucked slightly to express his indignation, and Legolas straightened and sighed. "If I knew more, Gimli, than perhaps I could do something. But in this, you now know as much as I. Have you any suggestions?" 

Gimli sighed. "Alas, I do not, Legolas, and I believe you overestimate my knowledge. Elven dreams are a mystery to me, but it seems as though this is some portent of evil that must be confronted. My only suggestion is to take this problem to its source, yet such a solution we have already discussed and discarded. Still, I wish to confront Dashnir. Even if it does us no good, I would have him know the wrath of a dwarf on behalf of an injured friend." 

Legolas smiled, cheered slightly by the dwarf’s display of loyalty and temper. "I hope that you will inform me ere you do confront Dashnir, for I wish to see this contest of wills. But perhaps you should seek another to speak for you, Gimli. Dashnir is wise in the ways of words and diplomacy, but you speak more with your axe than with your mouth." 

"I see no reason why Dashnir cannot enjoy the diplomacy of my axe. I would be most interested to see how he responds." 

The elf laughed. "As would I." He shook his head and smiled, allowing the wind to blow his hair from his face. With Gimli behind him, the desert no longer seemed so dark and even the starlight became stronger. And yet…there was still a veil of shadow over all. A darkness that could not be driven back with mirth. It hovered there, on the edge of diminished senses, and it taunted him from afar, daring him to discover its secrets. The prince shivered and his eyes grew dull, recalling the cruel voice from his dreams and the slow death it promised. 

"Legolas?" 

Legolas frowned and focused his eyes, forcing his mind back to the realm of reality. "My apologies," he murmured, aware of the dwarf’s anxious gaze boring into the back of his head. "I did not watch my thoughts." 

"The shadow rests heavily upon you, my friend," Gimli whispered. One hand left the elf’s waist and came up to rest on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. "I know not how to help you, Legolas. There is little I can do but this—I make you a promise that you will never be alone in this darkness. In confronting you, Dashnir has confronted me. You do not stand alone, Legolas, nor will you ever. Not even in dreams." 

The elf frowned, catching a strange undertone in the dwarf’s voice, and he thought back to his restless sleep during the day. When the darkness seemed to press hardest and hope seemed faintest, he remembered that he had felt an outside presence beside him. At times this presence seemed to fade and the shadow loomed over him as though it would claim him forever, but then the presence would grow strong and the darkness would be driven away. It was never driven very far and it was never banished for very long, but the brief reprieve had enabled Legolas to rest, confident that another would guard his sleep. When he woke in the evening, he’d forgotten this presence, for the fears from the nightmares had overshadowed the help he’d received. But he remembered now, and he knew who was responsible for what little rest he’d managed to obtain. 

"Thank you, Gimli," the elf whispered. "I had forgotten. I know not how you did it, but know that I am grateful." Legolas glanced back at his friend with a smile of gratitude, and the smile increased when he saw the dwarf fidget self-consciously. Laughing quietly, the elf turned back around and released Gimli from his piercing eyes. "Thank you." 

And softer than a summer’s breeze, the dwarf answered him, his voice gruff with emotion and awkwardness. "It was my pleasure to aid you, Legolas. And you are more than welcome." 

* * * *

Eomer reigned Shade to a halt, letting the horse toss his head and dance a bit to shake out tired muscles. Beneath the fading starlight, Lake Nurnein glistened like silver spread as a blanket over the sand. According to Aragorn, this was one of the largest of the hidden lakes and a stronghold for members of the Gartabo tribe. As Eomer cast his eyes round about, he discovered that unlike Lake Supt and Lake Miyarr, there were others already camped about this oasis. White tents dotted the landscape and horses were being watered in troughs filled by the lake’s cool waters. Aragorn had explained that both Supt and Miyarr were too remote for most tribes and only served as stopping points between Nurnein and Anduin. Horse raiders such as the ones who attacked them on their first morning in the desert were known to use the two northern lakes, but they did not camp around them for fear of being caught by another tribe seeking vengeance. 

"Where shall we pitch our tents, honored ones?" 

Eomer turned and sent a rather cold look in the direction of Dashnir. The man didn’t seem to notice as he was focusing on the king of Gondor rather than the king of Rohan, and once again, Eomer felt the sting of wounded pride. 

"Have you any objection to camping near the Gartabo tribe?" Aragorn asked, watching Dashnir closely. 

"Of course not," the man replied smoothly, though Eomer though he caught a flicker of unease in Dashnir’s eyes. "I have need to converse with them in any case, for they will wonder why Mohart is not with us and I must explain that he fell ill and remained with Prince Imrahil at Dol Amroth. Shall the eastern side of the lake suit you, honored ones?" 

Eomer noticed that though Dashnir used the plural, he still focused his attention exclusively on Aragorn. Indignation shook the horse-lord but he bridled his feelings quickly, taming them as he would a restless mount. _Not now_ , he told himself. _Soon_. 

"The eastern shore will suit our needs," Aragorn was saying, turning Arnor and moving the horse into a slow trot. Eomer hurried Shade after him and fell into position beside Aragorn, noting bitterly that he had not been consulted when they chose a place to rest. Not that he objected to the eastern side of Lake Nurnein, but did not he have an equal say in where they chose to camp? Half of the men in the company were his, after all. At what point in the journey had Aragorn assumed command over the Riders of Rohan? 

They were now riding past groups of men who watched them with open curiosity and veiled distrust. Dashnir rode near the front of the group and at his piercing gaze, many turned quickly away as though fearful of meeting his dark eyes. Eomer felt his level of alertness rise, and he watched suspiciously as fingers were pointed at the fine horses of Rohan and whispered words were exchanged. His hand began straying to the hilt of his sword but a soft warning hiss from Aragorn stopped him. 

"They but evaluate your strength, Eomer," the king of Gondor whispered, his voice so low it was difficult to hear. "Do not darken their observations with threats of war. Those gathered about us are primarily from the Gartabo tribe. These men are not raiders but farmers, or as close to the occupation as one can come in the desert. They have no interest in your horses other than a measure of your political weight. Take pride in the fact that they think so highly of you that they make mention of it one to another." 

Had Eomer been thinking clearly, he might have recognized Aragorn’s words for the compliment that they were. But he was not thinking clearly and he did not see the praise bestowed upon him. All he could think of was the fact that Aragorn understood the ways of the desert and was all too prepared to bestow his counsel and advice on those less informed. The horse lord sighed and shook his head, glancing warily at Aragorn out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the king of Gondor sought to further his power and control through intimidation. Perhaps it would not be long ere Rohan fell beneath the thumb of Minas Tirith. Was not Rohan already pledged to ride whenever Gondor called? What more would be demanded of them? Would they soon be paying tribute to Minas Tirith? Would the Rohirrim be disbanded as a military unit for fear that they might resist the encroachment of Gondor? Would he become little more than a puppet? A tool for Aragorn to work his will in Rohan? 

"What of this area, honored ones?" Dashnir said, breaking the train of Eomer’s disturbing thoughts and gesturing to a sandy region somewhat set apart from much of the Gartabo encampment. 

"It is more than adequate," Aragorn answered. He glanced at Eomer as though for confirmation, but the horse-lord had his eyes elsewhere and did not see the look. Instead, he was watching the Haradrim around them and noting that the delegation had already begun to break up, assuming this would be their campsite. Aragorn had made the same assumption and Eomer had no reason to contest it. He doubted Aragorn would listen to him even if he did object. 

"This is the last hidden lake before Haradhur, is it not?" an elven voice asked, startling Eomer from the hole of self-pity that he’d been digging. He turned and eyed Legolas suspiciously. 

"I wonder that you should ask me, for I know little of the desert." 

The elf blinked, surprised by Eomer’s belligerent tone. Behind Legolas, Gimli’s eyes narrowed slightly and he pursed his lips. "Does aught ail you, Eomer?" 

Beneath him, Shade moved restlessly as though sensing the tension. Eomer laid a soothing hand on the horse’s neck while he leveled a glare at the dwarf. "And what do you believe ails me? Or am I not allowed to speak my mind should I desire to? Has that also been taken from me?" 

Elf and dwarf exchanged baffled looks. "I meant no offense," Gimli said at length, watching Eomer closely. "I wondered if perhaps the heat of the desert might be affecting you." 

"And I, being lesser than the rest of you, am expected to have problems with the temperature," Eomer said coldly. 

"That is not what was meant," Legolas said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "The heat has affected all of us and will continue to do so. You are our friend, Eomer, and we only wished to ease your troubles if that is possible. But it seems to me that more than the heat is amiss." 

"And if seems so to you, Legolas, than it must be. After all, you are the elf and who am I to dispute your superior senses." 

Had Eomer stopped to think about the words he uttered before they left his mouth, he would have never said them. Had Eomer been paying attention to the way Legolas stiffened at his last comment and how the elf’s eyes filled with a look of grief, he would have immediately formulated an apology. And had Eomer noticed Gimli’s scowl of anger and the way the dwarf’s hands strayed to his axe while rage flashed across his face, he would have feared for his life. But Eomer did none of these things, lost as he was in his own world of growing suspicion and rampant paranoia. Sensing that no further comments would be forthcoming from elf and dwarf and completely missing the shock and anger that radiated from both of them, he turned Shade with an abruptness that startled the horse and spurred him away from the group, leaving all manners of organization and setup to Aragorn. After all, that was what the king of Gondor truly wanted. 

Confused by Eomer’s actions, Shade tossed his head and snorted, hoping to receive something in the way of a comforting word or a consoling pat. But Eomer was not paying attention to the needs of his horse and instead urged the steed into a fast gallop, directing him further and further away from the cooling waters of Lake Nurnein. It was a mark of how distraught the horse-lord was, for had he been in his right mind, he would have known from the rasp of Shade’s snorts that the stallion was in need of water. But a single thought seemed to pervade Eomer’s mind this night, and a single goal consumed his consciousness. And that goal now lay in sight, kneeling in the sand and attaching a small, rolled parchment to the leg of a hawk. 

"Garat!" Eomer cried, galloping Shade hard the last hundred feet and then bringing the distraught horse to an abrupt and screeching halt. 

Startled by this sudden intrusion, Garat stood and whirled about, his hand straying to the curved sword that lay hidden beneath his desert robes. When his eyes came to rest upon Eomer, a sickening smile twisted his face. He turned away, knelt, and then stood again, this time with the hawk on his arm. "My greetings, honored one. What brings you to me as the night wanes?" 

Eomer was not in the mood to brandy words. Swinging off his horse, he advanced on the man with his hand clutching tightly at the hilt of his sword. "You and Dashnir conspired to attack our camp using Bron’s raiders," he accused, wasting no time in coming straight to the point. 

Garat frowned and studied Eomer for a moment. "Your words are blunt, young king. Such is the way of the desert. Perhaps you are not as stupid as you appear to be." 

The king of Rohan ground his teeth and wrapped his hand tighter around the smooth hilt of Guthwinë. "You are avoiding the question." 

"I did not know that a question had been asked. I remember only a statement that you seemed to think was a fact." 

"Then allow me to rephrase," Eomer hissed, clenching his teeth together. "Can you deny that you and Dashnir instigated the raid on our camp while we were stopped at Lake Supt? And can you deny that you used the raid as a distraction to rob Legolas of his elven senses?" 

The corners of Garat’s mouth twitched and he suddenly cast his arm into the air, releasing the hawk. The bird cried aloud and then spread its wings wide, quickly catching an updraft and soaring away from the two men. After watching the hawk as it slowly faded from sight, Garat looked back down at Eomer and shrugged. "I did not know that Legolas had not his elven senses. From what I have observed, he does not seem to be inhibited by this." 

"Answer the question," Eomer growled. "Or are you afraid?" 

Garat’s eyes flashed and it was his turn to advance. "Know this, King Eomer of Rohan. I am of the Warra tribe and I am a warrior on the council. I am never afraid and you would do well to remember that." 

"Then show me your courage and tell me what I wish to know." 

"I have not the power to cast a shadow over the elf’s mind," Garat said. "As for the raiders, they were clearly uninformed as to your strength and ability as a military power. Would I order an attack without sufficient information? Such an action would be unwise. Surely you know that, honored one." 

"You play with words, but they will not hide you forever," Eomer promised. "Answer me now. What of Dashnir? What part did he have in this?" 

"I am not accountable for his actions, honored one. I am neither his master nor his slave. What he chooses to do is his affair and if it happens to coincide with my own plans or the plans of my tribe, then so be it." 

It was the last straw. Faced with nothing but circular, evasive answers, something deep within the horse-lord snapped. What Eomer did next he did in a fit of rage, and had he been able to remember this incident afterwards, it is doubtful that he could have explained the thought processes that led him to his actions. But regardless of how it came about or what justification his mind invented to rationalize it, he suddenly surprised both himself and Garat but lunging at the delegate from Warra and seizing him by the throat. The two went tumbling into the cold sand and a hard elbow to Eomer’s chest caused him to loosen his grip slightly. A flash of pain ripped down his left forearm and he grunted in surprise. Tightening his hold on Garat’s throat with his right arm and feeling the man gasp for air, he drew his left arm back and seized Garat’s right hand just as it came back in for another strike. Garat then bucked beneath him and they rolled to the side, grappling for control of the short knife that Garat still held in his hand. Shade neighed suddenly, distracting Eomer just enough for Garat to tear his arm free of the horse-lord’s grasp. The knife shot forward, seeking to imbed itself in Eomer’s chest, but it was suddenly and abruptly knocked away. Seeing his chance, Eomer surged forward, looking to collapse Garat’s windpipe when a hard blow from above knocked him backwards. 

Coming out of his roll onto his knees, he tried to reorient himself in order to deal with this new threat, but he did not react quickly enough. Lights exploded in his mind as the hilt of a sword connected with the side of his head. Falling forward, he hit the sand hard and groaned in spite of himself. A booted foot turned him over and his dimming eyes made out the black silhouette of Dashnir as he loomed against the starry sky. 

"Isn’t this interesting," the man murmured, reaching down and placing a hand on the side of Eomer’s face. Eomer tried to jerk away, but a shadow suddenly fell over him and he found he could not move. It felt as though probing fingers, bitterly cold to the touch, flitted through his mind. His thoughts froze, he struggled to breathe, and then the world faded into darkness. 

* * * *

Aragorn could not remember a time when his mind had been in such turmoil. It seemed that the harder he grasped, the more elusive answers became. The facts were all there, waiting only to be pieced together like one of Bilbo’s infuriating wooden puzzles, but for all his training and all his talents as a descendent of Isildur and Elendil, Aragorn could not get the different parts to match. During the night’s ride, he’d examined all that he knew from every possible angle and every possible perspective, and still explanations fled from his mind. _Like water through a sieve_ , Aragorn thought to himself, his brow furrowing in frustration. _All that I know falls through, and even those around me can do nothing to prevent the flow. And where is Eomer!?_

Raised to be a captain of the Rangers, Aragorn was used to knowing things not commonly known and seeing things not commonly seen. He was used to having enough information that he might paint at least a broad picture of the Enemy’s movements and intents. He was used to knowing where his men scouted, what their objectives were as they patrolled various regions, and what might threaten them should fortune abandon the Dúnedain as she was wont to do from time to time. He had come to trust his intuition as surely as one might trust another sense, yet now it seemed his abilities were in a frenzy of chaos and disarray. He no longer knew what to trust, what to dismiss, what to mark as important, or what to seek. And the lack of concrete information—or even semi-reliable hunches—was driving him to madness. 

"Aragorn? Know you where Eomer has gone?" 

Aragorn jumped slightly at this sudden intrusion into his thoughts and he turned quickly, his eyes coming to rest on Gimli and Legolas. The elf’s eyes narrowed slightly, apparently catching Aragorn’s lapse, but Gimli seemed oblivious enough and the king of Gondor decided to focus his attention on the dwarf. He was not in the mood to confront Legolas’s questions or concerns right now. "I do not, Gimli. It was my hope that he had gone somewhere with the two of you." 

"We had hoped to borrow his shield again, but perhaps we should seek Arhelm instead, since Eomer is not to be found," the dwarf mused. 

"Something troubles him," Legolas spoke softly, his eyes still examining Aragorn’s tense form. Even without the gift of elven senses, his probing gaze still had the power to make even a descendent of Isildur become restless and unnerved. "As we stopped to discuss the site of our camp, Gimli and I attempted to have words with Eomer, but he answered us in a fit of anger and rode off. I would have expected him to return by now." 

"Eomer is not alone in his troubles, though," Gimli said, drumming his fingers absently on the haft of his axe. "Did you not jump just now when we came upon you? I have very rarely seen you take unawares, and we were making no effort to be silent." 

"Gimli is incapable of silence anyway," Legolas added. The dwarf tossed the elf an annoyed look but did not pursue the insult, instead turning to look at Aragorn as they waited for an answer. 

"My thoughts were elsewhere and I fear I lost track of my surroundings," the king of Gondor said at length. 

Judging from Legolas’s narrowed eyes and Gimli’s derisive snort, the two were not satisfied with his response. But how else could he explain his preoccupation? He didn’t fully understand it himself. Perhaps he could avert their concern by claiming the heat was wearing hard on his mind. Or perhaps he could divert them by instead seeking to uncover the mystery behind Eomer’s anger and subsequent disappearance. _And perhaps you will convince them that dragons are really disgruntled hobbits,_ the more cynical side of Aragorn’s brain informed him. 

"The sun will rise soon," Aragorn said when the silence began to become awkward. "Let us retire to the tent and hope Eomer will join us soon. Further discussions we might have can take place there." 

This seemed to agree with Legolas and Gimli, who exchanged quick glances and then nodded in acceptance. Following his friends, a slow smile traced its way over Aragorn’s rugged his face. Perhaps this would work out for the best after all. Legolas and Gimli wanted something of him, and he had something he wanted of Legolas. Letting the flap of the tent fall shut behind him, Aragorn moved to his pile of saddlebags and began looking through them, aware of the questioning gazes of his companions. Eventually finding the object of his search he stood, turned, and fixed his eyes on Legolas. "A trade. I answer your questions, but before I do so, you take something to aid your sleep." 

The elf blinked. "Something to aid my sleep?" 

"You are probably not aware of it, but Gimli sat up with you for much of the day, watching your sleep and stepping in when dark dreams became too much. I checked my supplies and have found a few leaves of _ôlgalenas_. Will you at least humor me in this? And I shall humor you in your questions." 

Legolas frowned and turned his attention to Gimli. "You were awake for much of the day? Why did you not wake me? I thought you were with me only a short time." 

"You needed your rest," Gimli answered gruffly, refusing to meet the elf’s inquiring eyes. 

"Legolas?" Aragorn prompted, waving the faded leaves slightly. 

The elf scowled, wrinkling his nose slightly at the scent that _ôlgalenas_ made. "Their taste is foul. And I have no need to be drugged." 

"Speaking on Gimli’s behalf, I think it would be wise if you did take them." 

"Elven sleep is not as mortal sleep. I have no wish to alter my rest." 

"Your sleep isn’t elven sleep right now," Gimli broke in, his voice firm and commanding. "You told me yourself that you could no longer control the dreams that haunt you. If you cannot control these dreams, at least prevent them from searing your mind and keeping me awake." 

"I do not need—" 

"Yes, you do." 

Elf and dwarf scowled at one another, and Aragorn watched with no small degree of amazement as the two friends faced off in a contest of wills. It was an interesting sight, to say the least. Gimli, his head level with the other’s elbow, stood with bristling beard and flashing eyes, daring his friend to disagree with him. By contrast, Legolas loomed tall and fair, his imperious gaze braving the dwarf’s stern disapproval and testifying of his own pride and stubbornness. For a moment they stood thus, silent and immovable. Then, something happened, the growing tension vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, and Legolas looked away. 

"One leaf only," the elf murmured. "No more than that." 

"One leaf is hardly sufficient," Aragorn protested. "Three at least." 

"One," Legolas said firmly, his eyes hardening in an expression that Aragorn immediately recognized. "One or none at all. One leaf shall be more than adequate to dull my dreams to the point where they lose their vividness and cease to trouble me." 

"Two leaves?" Gimli asked hopefully. Legolas narrowed his eyes and glared at the dwarf. 

"One it is," Aragorn said with a slight smile, pouring some water into a thin metal cup. Crushing one of the dried leaves, his held his breath as the strong, bitter scent rose into the air and let the pieces fall into the cup. Swirling it about, he watched as the juices stored within the leaf mixed with the water and turned it a rather milky white. Darting a glance over his shoulder, Aragorn found that Legolas was watching him carefully. Plans for crushing another leaf faded away and Aragorn smiled at the elf’s scrutiny. "You know me too well, my friend," he said, handing the cup to the elf. 

"I have been the subject of your healing tricks too often to fall for them again," Legolas replied, sniffing distastefully at the mixture and staring at it as though his gaze would somehow make it more palpable. 

"It disappears if you drink it," Gimli said helpfully. 

"I am of more than half a mind to pour this concoction on your head, dwarf." 

"If you do, dreams will be the least of your troubles, elf." 

"Drink it, Legolas," Aragorn said with a slight laugh. "The taste will not improve with time and you are better served by getting this trial over with." 

The elf sent Aragorn a rather disturbing glare but with a shudder, he put the cup to his lips and tipped his head back. Legolas downed the fell concoction in one, long swallow, and then practically threw the cup back to Aragorn, his face twisting as he tried to rid himself of the foul taste. Gimli handed the elf a skin of water and Legolas gratefully took a long drink. Returning the skin to Gimli, he licked his lips and fastened his eyes on Aragorn. 

"Now, my liege, I have kept my end of the bargain. It is your turn, and I would hear your answers before this potion sends me to sleep. What troubles you?" 

"A lack of answers," Aragorn sighed, stacking some of the carpets and sitting down. Gimli and Legolas followed his lead and when all were seated, Aragorn continued. "I feel as though all the information is here but I am incapable of making sense of it. Plans and intentions are before us, but I cannot seem to create of them any clear picture." 

"I was of the opinion that we had developed a very clear picture earlier," Gimli said, his face taking on a strange expression that the king could not read. "We have established that Garat is Dashnir’s pawn and that Dashnir is a pawn of a greater power. We suspect Dashnir to be of Númenórean descent, and we suspect that he was the one to cast _ú-glîr_ over Legolas. We think the raiders’ attack on our first morning in Harad was a test of our skills. What clearer picture could you desire, Aragorn?" 

"One that reveals motives and ultimate intentions." 

"Gondor’s fall," Legolas supplied. "And I would add your death to the list of motives and intentions, as well as revenge for the disgrace of the Black Númenóreans." 

"Let us not forget domination of other tribes in the desert," Gimli said. 

"But it is not enough!" Aragorn exclaimed, abruptly rising and beginning to pace. "We must know more. How shall they go about achieving their goals? When will they act? Where do the other tribes stand?" 

"As for how they shall achieve their goals, I suspect it depends upon their perception of our strengths and weaknesses," Legolas said, fighting back a yawn. "They will act at a time when interference will be least but visibility will be greatest. I suspect that would be during a lull in the negotiations once we reach Haradhur. And from what you have told us, the other tribes are suspicious of both Khurintu and Warra." 

"What more would you desire to know?" Gimli asked, his concerned eyes following Aragorn as the king continued to pace. 

"Specifics," Aragorn murmured, rubbing his temples. "All we know are generalities." 

"That is all we usually know," the dwarf said. 

Isildur’s heir passed a hand over his eyes and sighed, trying to settle his mind. But it seemed to be in an uproar, clamoring for more and more information but the information was just not to be had. Legolas and Gimli were right. They knew all they could possibly know and it was no less than what they had known in past conflicts. In fact, it was more than they had normally known throughout the War of the Ring and they were lucky to have as much information as they did. But why was he still uneasy? And why did he feel this overwhelming need to keep pressing the obvious when it was clear that he had wrung all intuition possible from what little facts they had? 

"My apologies," he whispered, shaking himself and sitting back down. "I do not know what has come over me." 

"Possibly the same thing that has come over Eomer," Gimli mused thoughtfully. "You desire information and feel you have been slighted. Eomer desires respect and feels he has been slighted." 

"Something is playing on your fears," Legolas said, unable to hold back a yawn this time. "Just as my dreams trouble me, your obsessions and hidden fears trouble you." 

"That makes sense," Aragorn reluctantly conceded. "But if so, what is causing this? And how? And in relation to all this, why is Gimli not affected?" 

The dwarf blinked and frowned. "I had not considered that," he murmured. "I suppose I should be affected, but I do not feel as though my thoughts and feelings have been altered. What think you Legolas? Legolas?" 

The elf jerked his head up and blinked. "Yes?" 

"Perhaps you should lie down ere you topple over," Aragorn recommended. 

Legolas scowled. "What was the question?" 

"Never mind," Gimli said. "This discussion can wait until you are more coherent. Let us retire for the day. Has Eomer still not shown himself?" 

"No, he has not," Aragorn said, frowning. Getting up, he walked to one of the tent’s two flaps. By now, the sun had lifted her fierce, burning gaze above the horizon and the temperature was already beginning to soar. Lifting the tent flap slightly, Aragorn shielded his eyes against the blinding light reflecting off the sand and frowned. There was no sign of Eomer anywhere. 

A thud behind him and a muttered oath in the dwarven tongue called his attention back to the tent’s interior, and Aragorn laughed quietly when he turned. "Trust an elf to fall asleep in the middle of the tent," Gimli grumbled, looping his arms beneath Legolas’s and dragging the elf to a corner where carpets were already waiting. "I suspect he did this on purpose just to force me to drag his weight about." 

"He must have been tired," Aragorn answered. "One leaf is rarely that effective." 

"At least he is asleep and at least we know where he is," Gimli said. "Think you that we should look for Eomer?" 

"I suppose we must. We are far enough south that even a few minutes in the sun can be dangerous," Aragorn sighed. He didn’t particularly relish the prospect of looking for Eomer, and if Legolas’s theory was right, Eomer would be greatly offended if he knew that the others were concerned for his safety. But what else could be done? 

Fortunately, the answer to that question poked his head in through the tent flap. "Sire?" 

Aragorn blinked, startled by Imhran’s appearance, but quickly snapped into command mode. "Report." 

"By your leave, sire, I think showing would be better than reporting," the captain of Gondor’s guard said, pushing the tent flap open with one arm. It was quickly revealed that his other arm was being used to support the unconscious king of Rohan with Arhelm’s aid. 

"We found him by the edge of the lake, sire," Arhelm explained as he and Imhran maneuvered Eomer to the floor of the tent. "None nearby claimed to know anything of how he’d come to be there." 

Cursing softly, Aragorn knelt beside Eomer and felt for a pulse. Gimli joined him as Imhran and Arhelm stepped back. "How is he?" 

"His pulse is high," Aragorn murmured, running his hands over Eomer’s head to check for injuries. "And he may have been hit here just behind the ear." The king of Gondor then took a look at Eomer’s left forearm where a strip of torn cloth had been used as an impromptu bandage. "Who wrapped this?" 

"I did, my liege," Imhran answered. "The bleeding had almost stopped, but I judged it would be safer if I wrapped it anyway." 

"Knife wound," Aragorn murmured as he pulled the bandage back. "Shallow. From the jagged tear, it was made during a struggle. He is lucky to have received no worse than this." Bending closer to examine it, the king of Gondor studied it carefully. There was no sign of poison or infection, but that did not mean there was no substance on the blade’s edge. Some drugs left no sign but merely rendered their victim unconscious with but a scratch. Perhaps this had happened to Eomer. And yet…something within Aragorn rejected this idea. He turned to Imhran and Arhelm. "You say none know how this happened?" 

"None that the Rohirrim found, sire," Arhelm said. "And we made a thorough search." 

Aragorn exchanged a wordless look with Gimli and then shook his head darkly. "Dismissed. Look to your own needs and sleep with your weapons close at hand." 

Sketching brief bows, the two captains left, though Arhelm seemed reluctant to do so. Once they were gone, Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes. "What is happening to us, Gimli?" he asked, his voice so soft it was difficult to hear. 

"I know not, but perhaps we should reconsider our policy of confronting Dashnir. Or not confronting him, as the case may be." 

Aragorn thought about the idea, but eventually shook his head. "No, my reasoning is clear enough on that point. Let us wait until Eomer wakes. He may have much to tell us." 

Gimli leaned back and folded his arms, studying the man before him carefully. "Perhaps you are only on a search for more information, Aragorn. Are you certain that we do not have enough to act now?" 

This was actually a question that Aragorn had been asking himself. Once confronted by the fact that he was becoming increasingly paranoid about missing the slightest details, he could not deny it. Now he wondered if this uncertainty was holding him back when the situation actually demanded action. What exactly was this fear doing to him? How had it come about and how much was it affecting his decisions and thought processes? Somehow, he had to learn more about it! _Now I seek for more information concerning the state of my mind_ , Aragorn silently groaned. He felt as though he traveled in a circle, weaving around endlessly as he attempted to confront a problem only to find that it led him back to his starting position. Taking a deep breath and relaxing his mind as Elladan had taught him to do long ago in Rivendell, he waited for subconscious thoughts to surface. For a moment, there was nothing and it seemed that only a great darkness confronted him. And then, little by little, his original reasoning began to come forth. 

"We wait," Aragorn said at length, confident for now that his decision was a sound one. "We cannot confront Dashnir without threatening his honor, and we cannot attack his honor without more proof than what we have. For now, we wait." 

The dwarf considered Aragorn for a long moment and then he slowly nodded. "I follow your lead, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And since Eomer and Legolas seem to be indisposed at the moment, I shall also speak for them. Whither you go, there also shall we go." 

"My thanks, Gimli, son of Glóin. I only pray that I do not lead us where fortune can no longer follow." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "Come. Let us join our two companions, for in resting, they are wiser than we. Tonight we ride to Haradhur. We must be prepared."   
    
  

_Elvellon_ —Elf-friend 

_Ôlgalenas_ —I made this word up but a rough Sindarin translation would be "dream leaf." 


	14. Forces of Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Dashnir wondered if Aragorn ever became frustrated with the actions of those beneath him in authority. The king of Gondor possessed remarkable patience, but surely Eomer’s youth and brashness taxed his temper from time to time. In many ways, the young king of Rohan could be likened to Garat, who now stood defiantly before Dashnir, ready to defend his words and his deeds. _How is it that I am cursed with allies who can not see the quicksand until they are floundering about in it?_ The plan had been going so smoothly! Dashnir had sent his recommendations to Asbad, Asbad had altered his own preparations accordingly and approved the change in strategy, but now this should happen! Thinking rapidly through the situation and attempting to find a remedy for the blundering mistakes of his colleague, Dashnir leveled a stony glare at Garat and folded his arms across his chest.

"Do you realize what you have done?"

Garat scowled and folded his arms in return, moving closer to Dashnir as though to intimidate him. "I believe I have given Eomer cause for thought and taught him that men of Harad are not to be challenged so impudently. At least, I would have taught him that had not you taken away his memory of what happened. Beyond that, I have confirmed that your shadow firmly lies over the elf’s mind. Is that not something about which you have wondered?"

"I will answer my own questions in my own time," Dashnir answered coolly, restraining the urge to physically lash out at Garat for his insolence. It was true that Dashnir had been trying to learn whether or not he had successfully drawn a veil of shadow over the elf’s mind; and it was true that the success of such a veiling held future ramifications; but such information was not so vital that secrets had to be sacrificed in order to obtain it or foreign dignitaries assaulted and knifed in order to defend it. "Plans may have to be altered because of your foolishness," Dashnir continued at length. "We have given King Elessar more cause than ever to suspect us, for none of the men from Gartabo would dare attack an outside warrior. We have wounded King Eomer of Rohan, and the Rohirrim will not take this insult lightly. Only the rumor of Khurintu’s standing and power now holds them at bay, and I wonder if it will be enough to save us when darkness falls again and the men learn of their king’s wounding. If he calls us out and pins us with words, all our planning will be for naught."

Garat bristled and his eyes narrowed. "And what would you have done in my place, Dashnir? Eomer would not be stayed nor would he be turned aside. I have a right to defend myself and I have a right to defend my honor."

"You did not have to provoke him to attack."

"He came upon me ready for a fight," Garat snapped. "He needed little excuse to act."

"The king of Rohan is young and haughty, but he is neither so young nor so haughty as to attack another man without cause," Dashnir answered, his voice going cold. "What words did you speak to him that caused him to act so? And how did he come to be in the desert with you when you launched the hawk?"

"Do not seek to blame me for that," Garat hissed. "I know not what prompted Eomer to ride into the desert, nor do I know how he found me. I have given no information as to the manner or methods of our communication with our tribal heads, and I can only explain his arrival as coincidence. And as for my words to him, I said nothing that we have not said over the past few days. He accused us of inciting Bron’s raiders to attack and he accused us of casting a shadow over the elf’s mind. And I answered him as we have been answering both Eomer and Elessar."

"There is no such thing as coincidence," Dashnir murmured, rubbing his temples. It pained him to show such a display of weakness before Garat, but the clouding of Eomer’s mind was beginning to take its toll on him. He would be weary for the night’s ride, adding to Elessar’s suspicions and further incriminating him. But he could have done nothing else, for Garat had spoken words to Eomer that could easily be sifted by an able mind and reveal much of their purpose and planning. It had been necessary to blank Eomer’s memory. Yet such an act was not without cost, and he would pay the price for it in the evening. He was already paying much of the price in the way of a pounding headache that was beginning to settle in.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion at a later time," Garat suggested, revealing a sadly underused talent for sensing when a conversation could do no more good. "We cannot anticipate what might come of this in the evening, and we are best served by seeking rest now."

"Retire then, if you wish," Dashnir sighed, waving his hand in dismissal. "I doubt not but what I shall join you shortly."

"And in the interim?"

"There are things I must ponder," Dashnir answered, turning away from Garat and seating himself on the carpets that made his bed. "You claim you spoke no words to Eomer that he has not already heard?"

"I cannot vouch for my exact phrasing, but I gave him no information that has not been given before," Garat answered somewhat indignantly.

Dashnir grunted and shook his head. "Odd. I had not anticipated that Eomer should react so. My observations of him did not indicate that he would sooner resort to violence and confrontation. From what I believed, such actions would first have to be condoned by Elessar."

"I am surprised the dwarf was not with him," Garat grumbled, betraying his distaste for the stocky creature. "Those dark eyes have been upon us often of late, and were he not constrained by the wishes of a higher authority, I would wager that his axe would long ago have sought our blood."

Dashnir frowned. "Yes, that is strange. Strange that the dwarf did not act but the king of Rohan did. I wonder why that should be."

"Is it possible that the elf’s shadow is somehow affecting Eomer?" Garat wondered. "But then, would it not affect the King Elessar if that were the case? For he seems immune and I detect no shift or variance in his personality."

"You are unobservant," Dashnir replied testily. "Aragorn’s mind is in disarray, though he hides it well. Yet that is another factor that must be considered." The man sighed and rubbed his fingers against his temples. "I think you have it aright, Garat. The effects of the elf’s shadow are spilling into his closest associates by virtue of proximity. They are also becoming separated from Eru’s song. Elessar hides it better as he is more resistant to this than is Eomer, and I would credit his lineage with that advantage. But the dwarf…that is another matter entirely." Dashnir was quiet for a moment, thinking through the problem. "I have heard it said that dwarves are also bound to Eru’s song much like the elves, though in different ways and with different results. If this is true, then his tie with the song will prevent him from falling beneath the shadow unless I attack him directly."

"And because men have no direct link with the song, they may be sundered without your aid," Garat concluded. "What is to be done now?"

"Gondor and Rohan cannot fall apart before the Gathering," Dashnir said, speaking quietly as though to himself. "Our victory over them will be more convincing if they are seen as united, though their weaknesses may ultimately aid us."

"Can you mend what the shadow has marred?"

Dashnir closed his eyes and considered the problem. "I should consult with Asbad before taking any steps."

"Then it can be done."

"I can remove the shadow from the elf," Dashnir said, opening his eyes and shaking his head. "And by reuniting elf with song, the effect will be to disperse the shadow on Elessar and Eomer. Unfortunately, their judgement will sharpen, the elf shall have his senses once more, and I know not when such a thing can be done."

"Removing the shadow requires time, then."

"No more time than placing the shadow, but it shall leave both myself and the elf drained afterwards. And it shall have to be done when the elf and I are alone. We arranged that once. I do not know if we could arrange it again, for we are now watched."

"Then perhaps there is another way," Garat suggested. "Kill the elf."

"Such drastic action must needs be approved by our superiors."

"I see nothing drastic about it," Garat argued. "The elf was not invited to the Gathering and comes only as escort to King Elessar. His death affects neither great plans nor policies."

"Are you blind, Garat?" Dashnir demanded, wondering how the scheming Warra tribe could have promoted a man like this to second-in-command. "That elf is a close friend to both kings, and his death will certainly be felt. King Elessar may even decide to withdraw, and I have no doubt but what the elf’s death will drive the dwarf mad. No, we cannot act so hastily, nor can we act without regard to consequences. At this time, we must press on with our plan, but I will dispatch a hawk ere we leave tonight. Perhaps Asbad will be able to arrange something in Haradhur and we can act then."

"But by then it will be too late. Did you not say that Gondor and Rohan must appear at their best when we enter Haradhur?"

"It would be most profitable for us if they did so, but we cannot accomplish such a thing. I am too weary from misting Eomer’s mind this morning to remove the shadow from the elf tonight, and we know not if Asbad recommends such a policy."

"I never took you for a puppet, Dashnir, but perhaps in this I was wrong," Garat said coldly.

"If by that you mean to insinuate that I have loyalty whereas you have none, then I will take your words as a compliment," Dashnir answered calmly, but his voice sent shivers down Garat’s spine. "You join us only to see the head of your own tribe assassinated with yourself guaranteed to take his place. And Khurintu has agreed to this because your tribe might be of use to us. But know this, Garat. We do not need you. And if you stray too far from our wishes and desires, you shall find yourself dead alongside your leader Joranen."

"Take care whom you threaten, Dashnir."

"Take care where you place your feet, Garat. You tread dangerous ground and we are watching you."

For an endless moment, Dashnir and Garat stared at one another, evaluating strengths and weaknesses. A casual observer might have noticed nothing unusual, but to one who knew the ways of the desert, the confrontation became so tense as to be just short of physical blows. After what seemed like an eternity, Garat finally broke off his gaze and shrugged. "If it is the wish of your tribe to wait, then so be it. I will wait. But I warn you that the perils of delay are not to be underestimated. And if we do not act quickly, our victory over Rohan and Gondor shall be a hollow one that will earn us nothing in the way of respect from the other desert tribes."

"A way shall be found," Dashnir said, turning away and moving to lie down. His headache was now so painful that it was a wonder he could still see, and his face-off with Garat had not helped matters. "My people have waited long for a moment such as this to come. It shall not be squandered."

Garat grunted and turned to seek his own bed, sensing that the conversation had come to an end. Before long, the veteran warrior had cast himself into a world of dreams, and his deep breathing began to lull Dashnir. But sleep was not so quick to find the delegate from the Khurintu tribe, for his mind was struggling with the problems newly arisen. Garat’s defiance was something to be expected, and Dashnir was not terribly concerned about it. After a year or so of leadership in the Warra tribe, Garat would be killed by an assassin from Khurintu and the desert would be rid of him. But the matter of Eomer and Elessar…this was a troubling development. Yet he could not see a way of removing the shadow from the elf ere they reached Haradhur. He would have to stay his distance and play his cards carefully so as to ensure that no further deterioration came to them. Perhaps Garat was right, though. Perhaps the elf should be quietly eliminated. But in order to do this, they would have to confront the dwarf—who now never seemed to leave the elf’s side—and the elf was quite a capable warrior in his own right. He would not go quietly. No, they could not resort to murder so early in the plan. It was not yet time and it would be too easy for things to go awry.

Dashnir sighed and rubbed his brow, wincing as this increased the throbbing of his head. There were no ready answers to this and it seemed that his best policy was the one he had already decided upon. They could do nothing but wait. Anything more than that would jeopardize operations already underway. With a grimace of frustration, Dashnir slowly turned over and pillowed his head on one arm. He was doing himself and his tribe little good by slogging through problems with no solutions. It was best to rest now and struggle later. So with a resigned sigh, Dashnir allowed his mind to shut down, and it was not long before he fell into the silky darkness of a dreamless sleep.

* * * *

On a rare and historic occasion, Gimli was the first one in the tent to wake. This was such a surprising development that for the first few minutes, the dwarf was at a loss as to how to spend his time and whether or not he should rouse the others. His ultimate conclusion was that there was probably an hour left of daylight and that was an hour of heat that his friends could do without. Though it was tempting to spread the misery, Gimli decided that especially in the case of Eomer, it was probably best to let the others receive as much sleep as possible.

Once having decided this, Gimli began looking for other ways to spend his time. He packed his own belongings away, surreptitiously checked on Legolas only to find that the elf was sleeping quite soundly, and debated the idea of searching out Imhran and Arhelm in order to learn more of Eomer’s strange disappearance and reappearance in the early morning. Unfortunately, that would mean venturing into the sun, and in light of Aragorn’s earlier warnings, Gimli wasn’t certain he wanted to do that. But if he didn’t do that, what else could he do? Perhaps this policy of early rising was not all that Legolas made it out to be. What did the elf do with his time when he woke before the others? _Probably contemplates the stars and the trees_ , the dwarf snorted with a sidelong look at his friend. Legolas’s eyes were open as was customary for elven sleep, but they were glazed over in a way Gimli had not seen before. Nor had the elf so much as stirred when Gimli’s cautious hand had reached down to time the pulse in the prince’s neck.

"Those leaves of Aragorn’s certainly knocked you out," the dwarf said, wondering if he shouldn’t start waking Legolas now so that the elf would be coherent for the ride. Still, Aragorn probably knew more about this than Gimli and if Legolas needed to be roused early, the king would have already done so. Right?

Gimli frowned, reconsidering that last thought. Aragorn had not been himself of late, and perhaps things like waking a drugged elf no longer found room in his mind for prioritization. Eomer would certainly know nothing on the subject, which mean the task fell to Gimli, who could only rely on hunches and intuition in this matter. _Still, perhaps in this my instincts are better than Aragorn’s facts, for facts must be weighed and interpreted and I fear he has lost that ability._ It pained Gimli to make such a judgement of the king of Gondor, even if it was only a silent, mental one, but the dwarf was becoming convinced that it was the truth. He had watched Aragorn ere they all turned in for sleep, and the man had not been thinking clearly. He had been plagued by indecision and doubt, something Gimli had never before seen in Aragorn, and he seemed incapable of sorting what little concrete information and reliable guesses he had. Aragorn simply could not come to a decision he trusted, and that frightened Gimli.

"Perhaps this is to be expected given the desert surroundings, but I am no judge of men," the dwarf murmured, studying Aragorn as the king whispered quietly in his sleep and turned over. "Yet I cannot turn to you for help, for at this point, you are no more of a judge than am I."

Gimli sighed, shook his head, and then glanced toward Eomer, feeling his heart fall even deeper into a black pit of despair. Whatever affected Aragorn was thoroughly consuming Eomer. Something had happened to the horse-lord of Rohan that went deeper than any darkness shadowing Aragorn’s mind. The dwarf stiffened involuntarily as he remembered Eomer’s words to Legolas earlier in the morning. Gimli had been seconds away from teaching the king a lesson in manners, and had it not been for Legolas’s firm words and restraining arm, the dwarf would have hastened after Eomer as he rode away from the company. How dare he throw something like that in the face of Gimli’s best friend! He knew what ailed Legolas and he knew how much it bothered the elf! To mention the prince’s lost senses and to make a mockery of them at the same time…it was fortunate for Eomer that Legolas had managed to keep a level head, or Eomer would no longer have a head at all.

The dwarf grimaced and decided to turn his thoughts away from Eomer and Aragorn. Speculation at this point was useless, for he knew too little to hazard any reliable guesses. Stretching slowly and easing the kinks from taut muscles in his back, Gimli padded over to one of the tent flaps and risked a brief look outside. He instantly regretted it. Though the sun was setting, the desert was rippling with the heat of the day and a blast of that heat caught Gimli full in the face. Quickly letting the flap fall shut, Gimli retreated to the relative cool of the tent—though that relative cool still had the dwarf sweating like a troll despite the fact that he had yet to don his chain-mail—and tried to think of something to do.

Among dwarves, boredom is usually only experienced around members of a different Race. When a dwarf is with his own people, there are far too many things to discuss and debate for a dwarf to even approach boredom. It is only when dwarves begin associating with man that they will occasionally become bored, for men discuss action and deeds far past the time that a dwarf will actually take that action and do those deeds. To his credit, Gimli had learned to control his impatience for the most part, and it must be said that a great deal of his new-found temperament control came from his association with an elf. Gimli would never admit such a thing, but the facts of the situation were slowly manifesting themselves despite the dwarf’s wishes. And without Legolas around to diffuse the relative mediocrity of his surroundings, Gimli was approaching a stage of boredom that would have most sane individuals ducking for cover. A bored dwarf is an open invitation for trouble, and Gimli was evincing all the signs that he was ready to do something about his boredom.

Fortunately for the others, there was a small glimmer of patience left to the dwarf, and before he could charge out of the tent intending to confront Dashnir and Garat about their role in harming his comrades, Gimli’s faint ribbon of patience convinced him that he needed to talk the idea through with Legolas. Of course, this went against his earlier doubts about waking the elf, but the patient portion of his mind was insistent, taking on a rather peculiar air of impatience itself. _I am but one contradiction after another this morning_ , Gimli sighed, at the same time recognizing that his self-evaluation has a rather elvish quality to it. _And I have been associating with you, Legolas, far too long_.

With a small smile, the dwarf knelt by his friend and grasped his shoulder gently, giving it a slight shake. "Legolas? Legolas, we must speak. Come, Legolas, it is unlike you to let a dwarf rise first."

The elf murmured something in Sindarin and shrugged, attempting to dislodge Gimli’s hand. Gimli tightened his grip and shook the elf again, this time patting his cheek in the hopes of raising a better response.

"I am not that easily dissuaded, Master Elf. Clear your eyes and look upon me. Come, Legolas, for it is not long before we must ride again, and I would speak with you concerning Dashnir and Garat. Legolas? Legolas, you must wake!"

With a grunt, the elf rolled over and buried his face beneath his arms. "Gimli, if there is not an acceptable reason for this, I shall use your axe to shave your beard."

The dwarf smiled and gave the elf another shake. "All the way now, my friend. You are almost there. Just a bit more and I shall leave you alone."

"I doubt that."

Gimli laughed and stepped back. "I shall leave you alone for at least a short while, then. Come, will you not test my word?"

"What need have I to test it when already I know the answer?" Legolas asked, lifting his arms and glaring at the dwarf with sleepy eyes.

"Those leaves affected you greatly," the dwarf observed, sitting down as the elf struggled into a sitting position. The anger behind Legolas’s answering glower was greatly diminished when it was interrupted by a large yawn, and Gimli chuckled. "Perhaps I should give you a little more time to rouse your weary senses. What think you, my friend?"

"I think Aragorn put more in my drink than simply _ôlgalenas_."

"Did not you watch him?"

"I did, but I am beginning to suspect that he planned my drugging long in advance and had already coated the interior of the cup with _ôlgalenas_ extract. That would also explain why he gave in so easily when I insisted upon only one leaf."

"Aragorn did mention being surprised that you succumbed so quickly," Gimli said in defense of their sleeping comrade.

"Even three leaves should not have had such an affect on me were conditions normal," Legolas murmured. "But as we both know, conditions are far from normal. I suspect I fell to its influence faster because of what has happened."

"Because of _ú-glîr_ ," Gimli summarized. "Does it pain you to even speak its name, Legolas?"

The elf shrugged slightly. "I find that many small things bother me now, and I know not what may be the cause. But you did not wake me to speak of this, Gimli. What was your errand in rousing me from sleep?"

The dwarf took a breath, attempted to put into words his many thoughts and feelings, and ultimately settled on a simple sentence that would tell Legolas everything the elf needed to know. "I was becoming bored."

"Ah." Legolas nodded and seemed to become more alert. "Then I forgive you for waking me. The consequences would prove far more terrible had you endeavored to entertain yourself on your own. I trust you had some activity in mind?"

"I thought to instruct Dashnir in the ways of dwarven diplomacy."

Legolas laughed and a genuine smile crept over his face. "Remember, _elvellon_ , that I wish to see this lesson. You are not allowed to begin the teaching without me." The elf yawned again and stretched, shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of the haze that still lingered in his mind. "So have you decided against such action or do you still wish to pursue your version of diplomacy?"

"You know well the answer to that, but the immediate need to take Dashnir to task is beginning to die away. Yet I am a dwarf, Legolas, and dwarves do not take well to inaction, particularly when something has injured or grieved one of our companions. I think Faramir describes it best when he speaks of men of Gondor. Dwarves do not boast often, and when we do, we perform or die in the attempt. I have vowed that Dashnir shall pay for what he is done, and as a dwarf, I am held to that promise. I grow anxious and restless when I am unable to keep it."

"I must contest one point, Master Dwarf," Legolas said slowly and deliberately. "It seems to me that dwarves are always boasting as opposed to your claim that they do not boast often. Or perhaps that is only true of you and does not apply to other dwarves."

Gimli sighed in exasperation. "I know not why I share such things with you, for you are clearly incapable of understanding."

"You have said this before," Legolas answered, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "And yet still you pursue this folly in coming to me with such things. Is that not a greater reflection upon yourself? But come," the elf continued when Gimli began to protest. "Judging from the shadows upon the tent, the sun is nigh unto setting. Let us rouse Aragorn and Eomer, for I would hear what the horse-lord has to tell us."

"And I would hear his apology for rash words spoken earlier."

The elf sighed and studied his friend. "Have you forgotten so quickly, Gimli? This malady is upon me, not you. If I choose not to remember words spoken in anger and beneath a shadow, then that is my choice and my right."

"And have you forgotten so quickly, Legolas, that I promised to stand by you? I said it once and I say it again—in confronting you, they have confronted me. Your enemy is my enemy, Master Elf, for a dwarf does not leave loyalties by the wayside."

"Then do not abandon your loyalty to Eomer," Legolas said, rising and moving toward Aragorn. "I judge that he will need our support not our censure." Gimli grunted at this but gave no more answer. Realizing that this was probably the best he could hope for from the dwarf, Legolas sighed and directed his attention toward the king of Gondor. "Aragorn? Aragorn, you must rise."

A muffled groan emerged from Aragorn and the man turned over, sighing and mumbling incoherently. "I am surprised our conversation did not wake him," Gimli murmured, drawing near and studying the former Ranger. "You speak truly, Legolas, when you say that the shadow affects them. How is it that I am spared?"

"I know not, Gimli, but I am thankful it is so. So long as you refrain from diplomacy, I can trust that you have your wits about you."

Gimli frowned and drew himself up indignantly as Legolas began to gently shake Aragorn. "And think you that I lose my wits when I engage in diplomacy?"

The elf smiled but did not answer, for Aragorn chose that moment to groan and slowly open his eyes. Taking a moment to collect his bearings, he looked first at Legolas and then at Gimli. "What time is it?" he finally asked.

"High time for you to be up and doing," Gimli answered, stalking over to Eomer. He caught a warning look from Legolas and nodded reluctantly, accepting the message and silently promising to control himself before turning back to Rohan’s king. "Eomer? Eomer, you have much to explain to us." The horse-lord muttered something and batted at Gimli’s hand, which had come to rest on his shoulder. Tightening his grip, the dwarf bent forward and tried again. "Eomer, it is nearing the time when we must depart. Rise and let us do what must be done ere we can set off."

"You are waking Eomer?" Aragorn asked, getting to his feet and moving toward Gimli.

"I am attempting to wake Eomer, yes," the dwarf answered, looking at Legolas and then shifting his eyes to Aragorn. The elf’s mouth tightened, but he quickly nodded, catching Aragorn by the shoulders and steering him away.

"My liege, I have somewhat to say to you concerning a cup of _ôlgalenas_ that you gave me this morning," Legolas told Aragorn.

With the king of Gondor occupied, Gimli bent his concentration once more on Eomer. The last thing the king of Rohan needed right now was evidence of the fact that Aragorn had risen before him. The competition between the two men needed no more fueling. "Eomer?" Gimli whispered, giving the king a firm shake. "Eomer, wake!"

"Seek out Legolas," Eomer murmured irritably. "I am sure he is in need of someone to annoy him."

That sounded more like the horse-lord that Gimli knew and he felt hope rise in him. Perhaps this journey could still work out for their welfare. But there were still questions that needed answers, and Gimli was not one to let another off the hook so easily, even if that other happened to be the king of Rohan. "I have already bothered Legolas this morning and it is now your turn, unless you can rise and give me reason to take my business elsewhere," Gimli answered, shaking Eomer again. "Hurry, unless you wish to delay our departure."

That seemed to trigger something within Eomer and the young king opened his eyes, blinking and wiping his face free of the sweat that had beaded during the heat of the day. Turning his face toward Gimli, he frowned and started to sit up. "You are awake early."

"No, you slept late," the dwarf answered, standing moving back a step. "Legolas and I had to rouse both you and Aragorn," he added, letting Eomer know that he was not alone in his weariness. "Know you why you slept so long? Do you remember lying down to sleep?" _Or reminding Legolas of his diminished senses_ , the dwarf added silently, his hand involuntarily straying to his axe.

Eomer yawned and slowly got to his feet, a frown forming on his face. "No, I do not remember. I recall…I recall arriving at Lake Nurnein, but I remember no more than that. My memory is as a dark cloud, and I cannot penetrate it." He fell quiet and then flexed his left arm, wincing as shiver of pain shot through it. Glancing down, he discovered that it was wrapped and a light bloodstain was forming on the cloth. The king’s eyes darted back to Gimli, concerned and confused. "Were we attacked? What happened?"

"That is what we would all like to know," Gimli sighed, turning around and searching for Legolas and Aragorn. He quickly spotted the two in one corner of the tent where they seemed to be having a muted argument about what was and was not acceptable when prescribing medicine. The dwarf shook his head and hid a smile. He had only wanted the elf to distract Aragorn, not become distracted himself. Gimli cleared his throat noisily and the two turned toward him. "Eomer is awake, and if we wish to answer questions, I suggest we do it now."

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged brief glares and Gimli wondered exactly what they had said to one another before his interruption, but he doubted not that he could weasel such information from Legolas during the ride. He was becoming quite adept at getting his silent friend to speak and he intended to see how far this ability went and how long he would have it. Sneaking a glance back at Eomer, Gimli felt a shiver run down his spine. The young king was watching Aragorn with barely veiled suspicion. Whatever was affecting Eomer was still at work, and since Aragorn had been so easily dissuaded by Legolas, Gimli suspected that the same could be said for the king of Gondor.

"How do you feel?" Aragorn asked, and Gimli sensed Eomer stiffen at the question.

"I am quite well," the horse-lord said. "And yourself?"

"Eomer does not remember how he came to be here," Gimli said, revealing what the king of Rohan could not. "Aside from his loss in memory, I judge he has recovered."

"Imhran and Arhelm found you by the lake," Legolas said, speaking up before Aragorn could do so. "You had been injured and were unconscious. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"As I already told Gimli and as Gimli has just now told you, no," Eomer said, his eyes narrowing as he considered both the dwarf and Aragorn. For his part, Aragorn looked lost, and Gimli felt another shiver creep down his spine. Aragorn never looked lost. He always knew exactly where he was going and how he was going to get there. Even on the plains of Rohan, he let indecision claim him for only a moment and then it was gone. But now…

"You remember nothing whatsoever?" Aragorn asked, his voice sounding uncertain. Behind him, Legolas winced and looked urgently at Gimli, but the dwarf had no more answers than did the elf.

"I believe that is what I already said," Eomer answered coolly. "My last memory is of arriving at Lake Nurnein. After that, there is a blank."

"Dashnir?" Gimli asked, looking to Legolas.

The elf pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. "We know too little, but your guess is sound. I suspect it was Dashnir. As for what he did, that is another matter." Legolas became quiet, considering the meager facts that they had.

"If this is Dashnir’s work, then he has demonstrated he is not afraid to strike out against our company," Gimli said. "We must retaliate for this."

"No, we cannot," Aragorn interrupted, his eyes closed and his jaw tight. "I know that I am affected by a strange shadow, as is Eomer, and that you have no reason to trust my judgement, but in this, I am right. We cannot act yet. We have not the basis and neither have we the evidence. And if we act before the game is played out, we act prematurely."

"This talk makes little sense to me," Eomer spat, folding his arms across his chest. "I know not what may affect Aragorn, but I feel hale and—"

"Listen to your words, Eomer!" Gimli said, rounding on the horse-lord. "You are dismissing potential clues and taking brash action. This is unlike you, and you know it. How can you believe you are not affected? Think, Eomer!"

An awkward silence fell and after a moment, Eomer was forced to drop his eyes from the burning gaze of the dwarf. "Perhaps you are right," he murmured. "My apologies, if I have done aught to offend."

"That is well and good," Gimli said gruffly. "For this morning ere you rode away, you—"

"It matters not," Legolas suddenly interrupted, glaring at the dwarf. "The sun is setting and it is time for our company to depart. By your leave, my lieges, if you shall see to your troops then Gimli and I will see to the packing in here."

Recognizing an opportunity to seize command when it was presented, Aragorn nodded curtly. "Pack with haste," he ordered. "We must arrive at Haradhur in good time. And Eomer…" Aragorn paused, his brow knitting itself in frustration and then his expression cleared as though something had clicked in Aragorn’s brain. "Eomer, is this to your approval?"

For his part, Eomer looked startled to be brought into this discussion and he nodded as if by reflex. "I…I trust your judgement, Aragorn. What you counsel I will heed. Let us see to the men while Legolas and Gimli see to our own belongings. I would also speak with Imhran and Arhelm. Perhaps they can tell us more of what happened."

So saying, Eomer left the tent with Aragorn following him closely. Gimli let out a sigh of relief and looked at Legolas. "How did you do that?"

The elf shrugged. "When you endure several centuries of covering for a king’s faults as I have, you learn how to diffuse these situations." He was silent for a moment, lost in though, and then he seemed to shake himself. "Come. Aragorn spoke truly, and there is a need for haste."

"My apologies, Legolas, if I brought to life troubling memories."

"The memories are no fault of yours," Legolas answered, swiftly packing away Aragorn’s belongings and secretly palming some of the larger _ôlgalenas_ leaves. Gimli smiled but said nothing, turning to begin packing Eomer’s supplies. In any case, the elf was right. They had need of haste and Gimli had the length of the night’s ride in which to tease the elf about his fear of being drugged. Despite their lingering problems, the dwarf was beginning to look forward to this.

* * * *

Shade was nervous. Eomer could feel it, and the knowledge hurt him greatly. The horse had shied when Eomer came to mount him, and he now galloped as though skittish and frightened. The horse-lord wondered what he could have done to earn such fear from the chief of the _Mearas_ , and not for the first time this night, he cursed whatever darkness had fallen over him. Gimli had been right. He was not himself, but at the moment, he did not know what was wrong nor did he know how to correct it.

The horse-lord carefully went over all the conversations he had endured this evening, but he could find no new information in any of them. Imhran and Arhelm had revealed nothing he did not already know save for information concerning Shade. Apparently when Eomer was found, the stallion had been standing guard over his unconscious form and favoring his right foreleg. Judging from the horse’s gait as he ran, the limb was still stiff but Shade was too proud to let that trouble him. Still, Eomer wondered how Shade had come to be injured, for he certainly had no memory of it happening. _But then, I have no memory of how I came to have this_ , he thought, studying his left forearm. What had happened to him? What was happening to all of them?

He was loath to question Aragorn, for Aragorn had already made it clear that he had no ready answers. Had Eomer’s mind not been so clouded by his own self-doubts and indignation, though he was beginning to bring these things under control, he would have recognized how unusual it was that Aragorn could not unravel this puzzle. But the shadow still hung heavy over the king of Rohan despite his efforts to throw it off, and he could not see the ramifications behind the fact that Aragorn had no solution. He could only see that it was useless to press the issue. In addition to this, Eomer could not bring himself to show a lack of knowledge before the other king. It was a weakness, and though he was now aware that this weakness was amplified by the darkness that had fallen over them, he still could not ask Aragorn for help or advice.

Now considering the strange mental shadow as well as his lost memory, Eomer shot a suspicious glance at Dashnir. The man had been unusually quiet when they were gathering to leave Nurnein. Not that Dashnir was ever particularly talkative, but he typically said something about the pace they would need to set or the tribes they might encounter on the way. But this time, all such discussion had taken place between Aragorn, Fastahn, and Garat. It could be that the presence of so many from the Gartabo tribe had silenced Dashnir’s voice. Eomer had received the distinct impression at Dol Amroth that there was no love lost between Dashnir and Mohart. But why would commoners from Gartabo have such an affect on a tribal ruler from Khurintu? No, it made no sense. There had to be another explanation, and after surreptitiously watching him for the last two hours, Eomer was more convinced than ever that something was wrong with Dashnir. He seemed weary and ill. He sat his mount poorly this night, and he seemed to have difficulty matching the pace of the company.

Eomer’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted when, to his left, Faensul suddenly snorted and half-reared, nearly throwing Gimli from his back. The dwarf cried out and grabbed Legolas’s quiver, almost pulling the elf off as he pulled himself back on. For Legolas’s part, the elf was now whispering softly to the horse but it seemed to do not good. Beneath Eomer, Shade suddenly neighed and shook his head, biting at the bit and fighting the reins. Nor were Shade and Faensul the only horses to begin acting up. Most of the Rohirrim were now having problems with their mounts and the company was falling into disarray as some of the horses stopped altogether, causing those in the rear to stop also or attempt to skid around them.

"Eomer!" Aragorn cried sharply, reining Arnor around as Shade reared and whinnied. "Eomer, what is this?!"

"I know not!" Eomer shouted back, surprising himself with his honesty. But it felt good to be frank with his friend and ally, and a sense of confidence stole back into his being. Unfortunately, it was interrupted when Shade reared again, pawing at the air with his forelegs and shaking his head violently.

"They fear something," Legolas called out, finally getting Faensul to calm down though the horse now had his ears back and his eyes trained on the eastern horizon. Gimli’s arms were wrapped around the elf’s waist in a death grip and Legolas himself was clutching the horse’s mane hard.

"Do you know what they—" Aragorn was forced to stop because at that point, the even-tempered Arnor abruptly gave a snort and spun around, almost throwing the king of Gondor from the saddle.

"Storm!" Fastahn shouted, pointing east. Eomer backed Shade up, fighting the horse every step of the way, and turned to look to the east. What he saw shocked him. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as he tried to process the reality now engulfing the horizon. Looming large before all and gathering strength as it went was a rising cloud of sand, billowing toward them with a speed unmatched by even the eagles. The Haradrim were calling out to one another in terror and Eomer felt a shiver of fear crawl up his own back. Lightning began to flash as granules of sand and dust rubbed together, creating an electric charge.

"To the west! We shall take shelter in the Sihal!"

It was Garat who gave the order and Eomer immediately suspected a trap, but Aragorn managed to regain control of Arnor at that moment and started veering the horse westward. "Ride! Follow Garat and Fastahn!"

The wind was now picking up around them and as Eomer spurred Shade after Aragorn in a mad dash away from the coming storm, he was forced to shield his eyes from the blowing sand and dust. Somewhere to his left, he heard Gimli start coughing while Legolas murmured something in Sindarin, urging Faensul onward.

"Draw together!" Aragorn shouted, his form barely visible through the swirling sand. "We must not be separated."

Onward they surged, their horses stumbling as sight failed them and the storm crept closer. Eomer dropped to the back of the ranks, watching every rider closely to ensure that none became lost in this storm. He knew not where they were going, but his mind seemed to be clearing and his trust in Aragorn had been renewed. If there was a way to escape this, Aragorn would find it.

But the edge of the storm was almost upon them, and Eomer knew not what shelter they might find in the desert. The sand was flying faster, pelting his face so hard that he was forced to shut his eyes and trust in Shade’s senses. The voices of his men were faint sounds, scarce to be heard above the roaring wind that now threatened to bury them with its load of sand. Opening his eyes a crack, Eomer stiffened when all he could see was a cloud of blowing dust encircling them.

And then Shade stumbled as his hooves encountered a different surface. Jagged rocks were underfoot now and the sound of other horses galloping across this terrain could dimly be heard. Shifting his weight forward, Eomer coaxed Shade on and the horse obeyed, shaking grit and dust from his eyes and racing across the uneven surface with the agility of a cat. A wall of rock suddenly loomed before the king of Rohan and as the wind parted to circumvent this obstacle, visibility suddenly improved. He could see riders before him and Legolas riding abreast of him, the elf having also dropped back to ride as rearguard. Faensul whinnied, catching sight of Shade, and Shade returned the answer, hurrying forward as a sudden blast of wind swept up behind them. The storm’s intensity was steadily increasing, but now there was at least a destination.

Toward the towering, black rock they rode, letting their horses pick the way as the jagged ground made running difficult. But even as hope bloomed in Eomer’s heart, it died away. These cliffs offered little shelter and would only delay the inevitable. They needed to find a place where the storm could not touch them or they risked being buried alive if they were not pelted to death first!

"It’s volcanic!"

Eomer looked over at Gimli, for Faensul had galloped close to Shade and Legolas and Gimli were only a few feet away. "What?" Eomer shouted.

"Volcanic," the dwarf yelled back. "The rock is volcanic. There will be caves along this cliff. And if we are fortunate, some of these caves may even hold water. The rock could easily provide the necessary cavities for an underground aquifer."

"There!" Legolas cried, urging Faensul forward and pointing. True to Gimli’s predictions, they now beheld a small hole in the base of the rock. Garat, who had been in the lead, was already passing inside with Aragorn and most of the Rohirrim right behind him. Sensing that a reprieve from the blowing sand had at last become a reality, Eomer coaxed more speed from Shade and it was not long before the last two horses in the company reached the safety of the cavern.

Eomer inhaled deeply, gasping at air free from dust and sand. Shade danced and shook beneath him, struggling to free his eyes and nostrils of grit. Beside him, Gimli was already complaining about sand in his beard and Legolas was dusting himself off while eyeing the walls of the cave suspiciously. Outside, the wind howled and shrieked as though disappointed at being deprived of its prey, and Eomer shivered at the sounds. Stroking Shade’s neck, he dismounted and took the horse by the halter.

"I had begun to fear for your safety," Aragorn said, stepping out of the shadows and leading Arnor behind him. "It was my guess that you stayed near the back, but I knew not if you kept close enough to see the Sihal."

"That is what they call this place?" Eomer guessed, looking about the dark caverns.

Aragorn nodded and ran a hand through his dark hair, wincing as this caused a small avalanche of sand. "These cliffs run for miles north and south. A few of the smaller tribes in the far south use them as bases, but for the most part they are abandoned.

"Why should that be?" Gimli demanded, running his hand along the wall. "With but a little work, this cave could be made into a stronghold."

"Light, for one reason," Aragorn answered. "Tinder and fuel are difficult to find in the desert and these caves are darker than the blackest night if one travels much further in. Fortunately for us, this particular cave is used frequently as a stopping point for caravans who have not the speed to journey from Nurnein to Haradhur in one night and as such, there are torches along the main tunnel. The Haradrim are already lighting them. According to Fastahn, there is also an underground spring where we may fill our water skins."

"How long shall we be forced to linger here?" Legolas asked, and Eomer could detect a strange uneasiness in the elf’s voice.

Aragorn sighed and moved closer to the elf, looking to the entrance where sand swirled and fell in a violent dance. "Harad’s storms are difficult to judge. They come suddenly and can depart just as quickly. But a storm of this magnitude will probably last the entire night. I fear we may have to spend the day here. Even if the storm runs but another few hours, we will not be able to make Haradhur ere sunrise." The king sent Legolas an apologetic look, but the elf’s eyes were fixed on the entrance. Aragorn grimaced and then placed his hand on the elf’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. "Come. Let us follow the others. I have instructed the men to replenish the water skins and wait for us by the spring."

"By your leave, I would stay here and keep watch," Legolas said, his hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Perhaps fortune shall favor us and this storm will pass quickly."

"If that is your wish, you are more than welcome to stand watch," Aragorn sighed.

"I shall post a guard halfway between the spring and the entrance should you need to call us," Eomer offered.

"My thanks, Eomer," Legolas said, his voice still laden with unease. "That would be much appreciated."

"Then we shall leave you to assume your post," Aragorn said, gripping the elf’s shoulder tightly before releasing it and leading Arnor deeper into the cave system. "I will return after a bit once the needs of the men and the horses are seen to."

"Legolas…"

"Go, Gimli. You are thirsty. But I do have a favor to ask. Would you lead Faensul to the water?"

Eomer smiled as the dwarf glared at the horse, and for his part, Faensul looked none too pleased with the prospect either. But eventually Gimli nodded, though his nod seemed reluctant. "If that is what you desire, then I shall take this demon of yours and see that he satisfies his thirst."

"My thanks, _elvellon_ ," Legolas said with a smile before turning his attention to the elven stallion. " _Aphado Gimli, Faensul. Ista ias nen dortha_."

The horse snorted and tossed his head but obediently moved toward the dwarf, much to Gimli’s disappointment. With a weary sigh, Gimli sent both Legolas and Faensul a long-suffering look and then turned to follow Aragorn into the bowels of the earth with Faensul following closely. Eomer shook his head and then looked at Legolas. "Watch yourself should any of the Haradrim choose to visit this entrance. Any doubts or uneasiness you have may be exploited for their gain."

"You need have no fear on my part," the elf assured him, leaning against the cave wall and folding his arms across his chest. "Should they come here, they shall find a sentinel watching the storm, nothing more and nothing less."

The horse-lord nodded, wishing he could do something more for Legolas who was clearly ill at ease. But Aragorn and Gimli had already left, and they knew the elf better than any save perhaps the prince’s own kindred. If they were content to leave him alone, Eomer saw no harm in pursuing the same policy. With this knowledge, he tugged gently on Shade’s halter and turned into the inky blackness of the cave system. He was not looking forward to spending the rest of the night as well as the day in this rock with the Haradrim in such close proximity, particularly Dashnir, but perhaps this would turn into an opportunity to press them for more information. Or perhaps the cramped quarters would lead to arguments and bring into the open whatever grudges or ill feelings were kept on the part of the Haradrim. Eomer smiled, suddenly consoled by the prospect of sharing a cave system with Dashnir and Garat. This could be an interesting night.

 

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Elvellon—Elf-friend

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Aphado Gimli, Faensul. Ista ias nen dortha—Follow Gimli, Faensul. He knows where water lies.


	15. Weathering the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

A few lone torches in wall sconces flickered and sputtered, casting meager light into a wide cavern with a high, arching roof. Gathered together on once side of the cave, an assortment of horses grazed on the small rations that had been brought by the men for emergencies such as this. The men also ate, though it seemed they were not as content as were the horses, who, having drunk their fill of water for the first time since entering Harad, were happy as hobbits. A few were even sleeping, their heads down and their ears twitching in dreams of grassy fields and fresh food. Aragorn sighed as he watched them. There were times when he wished he could be as carefree. He was born to leadership and had been trained as a captain of men in the event that the crown of Gondor should ever come to him, but that did not mean he could not occasionally envy the benefits of following rather than leading. The ability to place unquestioning trust in another and to obey their orders with the knowledge that they would accept the consequences for your actions was sometimes a great blessing.

Behind him, Aragorn heard Eomer stir restlessly and he bit back a sigh of frustration. Most of the Rohirrim were ill at ease. Used to the open fields and rolling plains of the Mark, they were not accustomed to the confines of a cave. Even those hailing from Edoras, Helm’s Deep, and Dunharrow evinced signs of claustrophobia. Much like the elves, the Rohirrim needed open space. They needed to feel the wind. They needed to have the ability to spring onto the back of a horse and gallop for miles. But confined in this cave, even though it was a rather spacious cavern, some of the Rohirrim were growing antsy.

"Aragorn? Faensul and I are going back up to Legolas."

Aragorn blinked, not having heard Gimli’s approach, and nodded absently. "It is probably for the best. I would go myself as I promised, but I fear I may be delayed here." He glanced over his shoulder at Eomer and Arhelm, who were speaking with hushed voices, and grimaced. They kept looking toward the Haradrim and their eyes seemed to be forever drawn to Garat and Dashnir in particular.

Gimli followed Aragorn’s glance and grunted. "Perhaps you should remain down here until it is time to leave. I would not have a fight break out unless I am around to take part in it."

The king of Gondor smiled and shook his head. "If it seems we will come to blows, I shall send for you. I know there is a certain neck that you believe is destined for the blade of your axe."

"And my axe is ever restless until it finds that neck, which is why I will now take my leave and seek Legolas," the dwarf answered. "Were I to remain here, I fear I would begin something that would earn your censure. _Tolo_ , Faensul," Gimli called, looking for the elven horse. From the other side of the cave, Faensul snorted at the command but he reluctantly began trotting toward Gimli.

"When did you learn Sindarin?" Aragorn asked.

"You and Legolas both," Gimli sighed. "I am neither deaf nor dumb, Aragorn, and am perfectly capable of learning another language. Do I not know the tongue of the dwarves as well as Westron? And do I not know a bit of the Gondorrim’s speech as well as the language of Rohan? Why, then, is it so difficult to believe that I have also been able to learn a bit of Sindarin?"

"I meant no offense," Aragorn said, holding up his hands to placate the dwarf. "I find it strange, though, that a dwarf should speak the tongue of the elves."

"Legolas knows some of the dwarf tongue. Is that so strange?"

"You are both strange," the king answered with a smile.

Gimli muttered something less than complimentary as Faensul arrived at his side. "May I leave the two of you alone without fear that you shall be at one another’s throats?" the dwarf asked, nodding in Eomer’s direction.

Aragorn arched an eyebrow and fixed the dwarf with a stern gaze. "We are both kings, Gimli, and you would do well to remember that. Gondor and Rohan have long been allies, and it will take more than a shadow to sunder our lands or our friendship."

Not the least bit intimidated by Aragorn’s forceful and indignant words, Gimli shrugged and nodded. "I shall return when the storm blows itself out," the dwarf said. "Until then, Aragorn." And with that, Gimli motioned to Faensul and walked away, entering the tunnel that had led them down to the spring of water and vanishing swiftly into its darkness. Faensul hesitated a moment before following but after a minute or so of nervous prancing, he eventually overcame whatever compunctions he had and disappeared after the dwarf.

Left alone for the moment, Aragorn swept his eyes over the gathered company, noting the positions of the various players and attempting to judge their intentions and motives based on their placement within the cavern. It should have been an easy enough task for Aragorn’s mind as he had done it many times before, but he still felt puzzled and mired by shadow. The Haradrim had stationed themselves next to the tunnel leading to the outside world, and that could mean one of many things, or perhaps a combination of options. Aragorn simply couldn’t tell! The most obvious conclusion was that they were suspicious and hoped to flee the presence of the foreigners whom they escorted. But it could also be that they were simply uneasy underground since they were so accustomed to life in the open desert. Or perhaps they planned some trickery and wished to be the first out of the cave. Maybe it was simple coincidence. Maybe it was a political play to make Rohan and Gondor feel hemmed in and trapped. Maybe they simply sought to avoid feeling hemmed in and trapped themselves. Perhaps they thought to honor Rohan and Gondor by giving them a place nearest the water. Or perhaps they sought to separate Gondor and Rohan from the few guards who had lingered in the tunnel as well as the elf and dwarf who were now near the entrance.

Aragorn rubbed his temples and resisted the urge to moan in frustration. His mind usually came up with many different explanations, but then he would reason it down to the three or four most likely options and his intuition and instinct would validate one of them. But he seemed incapable of reason at the moment. He couldn’t analyze. He could only produce ideas and theories, and production was worthless without a filter to manage the flow of possibilities.

"Valar," he swore softly. _I know that I am shadowed and that this shadow veils my thoughts, but what good is knowing this when I can do naught about it?!_ Aragorn sighed, shook his head, and then decided to see what Eomer was doing. At the very least, he could discover what it was that Eomer and Arhelm seemed to be planning _. Or perhaps the better word is "plotting."_

Glancing once more around the cave as though to fix everyone’s position firmly in his mind, Aragorn turned and strode toward the Rohan’s king and its second-in-command. "Are your men settled?" Aragorn asked as he neared them.

"As well as can be expected," Eomer replied, and Aragorn could not help but hear the underlying tone of suspicion that came from the younger king. Eomer nodded a dismissal at Arhelm and the other man moved away, giving the two kings a measure of privacy. "These caves are not to the liking of the Rohirrim," Eomer continued, refusing to meet Aragorn’s eyes, "but I suspect you have already discerned that."

"These caves are to no one’s liking, saving perhaps Gimli," Aragorn said, ignoring the latter half of Eomer’s statement that had been spoken with bitter derision. How was it that he had not noticed Eomer’s descent into this mood? It should have been impossible for him to miss a development of this magnitude, yet he had not seen it until Legolas and Gimli pointed it out to him. "I suspect we will have to remain here for the remainder of the night as well as the day. Think you that the horses will be able to endure?"

"The horses of Rohan are able to endure any hardship," Eomer said evenly. "As for your own mounts, I know naught." He seemed about to go on, but then he stopped, frowned, and something deep within his blue eyes clicked. With a shake of his head, he looked searchingly at Aragorn and then an expression of horror took his face. "Aragorn I…I know not what came over me. I apologize for my words and—"

"If I allow you to apologize, then you must allow me to apologize for my ignorance and my indecision," Aragorn sighed, turning to study the Haradrim. "Something has been done to us, Eomer, but we know not what that something may be. I should be able to see it. By Elbereth, the pieces are all here but I am unable to fit them together!"

"Arhelm and I were discussing the possibility that we might quietly eliminate Dashnir and Garat," Eomer confessed, joining Aragorn in his study of the delegates. "Perhaps then this darkness would cease to affect us."

"No," Aragorn whispered, latching on to this rare ounce of certainty and praying fervently for more. "No, as much as we despise him and as much as he is a threat to us, Dashnir at least must continue to live. We believe he was the one to afflict Legolas, and as such, he is the only one we know of with any chance of curing the elf." Aragorn stopped and frowned, his eyes becoming thoughtful. "Eomer, does the darkness seem lighter to you?"

The horse-lord glanced at the flickering torches. "I see no change in the flames."

"No, the darkness over your mind. Does it seem…less oppressive? Easier to overcome?"

Eomer thought about that for a moment, seeming to delve deep within himself. For long minutes, he said nothing and stared at the wall sconces with unseeing eyes. At length he nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and contemplative. "You are right, Aragorn. It is less oppressive. Perhaps our knowledge of this shadow gives us the means to fight it."

"Nay, I think not," the king of Gondor disagreed. "And it occurs to me now that this shadow is not constant but changes depending on…" Aragorn trailed off and ran through his latest theory one more time. It was perhaps a sign of his lingering indecision, but he did not want to put forth this idea unless he was absolutely certain of its plausibility.

"Aragorn?"

"Proximity to Legolas makes the shadow stronger."

Eomer blinked. "You are certain?"

"I fear I am incapable of certainty on this or anything else at the moment," Aragorn sighed. "But it makes sense. I am able to control my own fears during the night’s ride and even make progress of sorts in deciphering our opponent’s plans and motives, but the moment Legolas steps into the tent for a discussion, it feels as though my mind shuts down. And just now, how is it you have suddenly changed and are now better able to recognize your own shadow? Legolas is not present. It is the same for me. It is Legolas’s shadow that contributes to our own. I know not if his shadow is the direct cause, but it is certainly a factor."

"But how could that be? You make it sound like a disease capable of spreading its contagion."

"To Legolas, this could easily be likened unto a disease," Aragorn said, his mind now beginning to click rapidly. "And in a way, it is contagious. It also explains why Gimli is unaffected. Men are not bound to Ilúvatar as are elves and dwarves. We have but a faint link, and it is that faint link that grants us our powers, perceptions, and individual talents. Shorn of this link, we begin devolving, losing what gifts we have been given. Legolas has been cut from Ilúvatar’s song and the shadow over him must be strong enough to also shadow us. But it would not shadow Gimli for the dwarf has his own unique connection. And that would also tell us what kind of _ú-glîr_ that Legolas is under." Things were falling into place now and Aragorn could barely contain his excitement. "He was not removed from the song. The song still exists for him, but he can no longer hear it. He is merely blocked. It is a simpler form of the spell, one that Celeborn might be able to undo with proper study."

"Aragorn, I rejoice for this insight and it seems to me that your mind and wisdom are returning, but I have still a question. How does this help us now? For we must move against those who would seek to thwart us, and ere long, we will be back in Legolas’s presence and once again our fears and shortcomings shall haunt us. What then, Aragorn? What is our next move?"

It was a good question and Aragorn knew it. What he didn’t know was how to answer it. "I still believe we should wait," he said at length, turning to watch the Haradrim. "Whatever their plans, they will wish to make an impression on the other tribes of Harad. Their peculiar form of anarchy is based upon respect and fear, and if one tribe were to successfully act against the combined forces of Rohan and Gondor, its word would become law in the desert."

"And so they will wait until the Gathering itself to act," Eomer concluded. "Which gives us time to further investigate their plans and so foil them. For if we cannot be conquered, do not we further our own influence and power?"

"We do," Aragorn confirmed. "But there is still great danger in this, for as we wait, their plans progress and they are able to muster what forces they need and take what steps are required. We must be vigilant, Eomer. More so than we have been."

"Both Rohan and Gondor have much experience in vigilance, for we have all the long years of Sauron behind us," Eomer said, his eyes glinting with memory.

"This is far different, I fear," Aragorn sighed. "Sauron moved in darkness and shadow, yet for all his cover, he was not a subtle enemy. His was a war of outright fear and confrontation. He had no need to hide the works of his hand for he had built his power base over long years of treachery and was secure in his fortress of Barad-dûr. The Haradrim are different. No one tribe has all power, and if works of subterfuge and betrayal are discovered, there is no impenetrable land of Mordor where that tribe may take refuge. As such, their work is far more subtle, and they excel in stealth and covert assassination. In this land, we face a different enemy, Eomer. And we must become as subtle and as calculating as they."

Eomer grimaced slightly and his eyes went to his bandaged left forearm. "I fear, Aragorn, that I have already failed that test."

"We know not if you failed for we know not what happened," Aragorn answered.

"Even so, this does not speak to my benefit and it would appear that they have the advantage."

"For now, perhaps," the king of Gondor allowed. "But did not Sauron have the advantage for many years? And did not we prevail in the end?"

"After much hardship and much loss," Eomer pointed out.

"Such is life," Aragorn shrugged. "Without hardship and loss, we would know nothing of joy and gratitude. But these thoughts are unlike you, Eomer! Throw off your dark countenance and hearken to the voices of your forefathers. Ever have the Rohirrim laughed in the face of adversity, and with that laughter that have ridden to victory and renown. We have need of your boldness, my friend, just as we have need of my caution. Together we are a balance, and so long as the scales are right, none can prevail against us."

Eomer sighed, shook his head, and laughed quietly. "Is not this a change? You are encouraging me to boldness while I press for caution and planning. Great powers have been at work for this to come to pass."

Aragorn laughed in return and clapped the other on the back. "Then come. We shall speak with the authors of these great powers and show them our own abilities. Let us find Dashnir and Garat and engage them in conversation. They may have much to tell us, and now that the shadow is weaker, we may be better able to hear their words." Aragorn then began moving toward the Haradrim, feeling Eomer fall into step beside him, but as his eyes swept those gathered he felt his breath catch in his throat and he stopped abruptly.

Eomer continued on a few paces before realizing that Aragorn was no longer with him, and he turned back with curious eyes. "Is aught wrong?"

Aragorn’s eyes swept the delegates and he swore quietly. For all his talk of wariness and watchfulness, it seemed a shadow still loomed over them, for they had yet again failed in their task. "Garat is no longer with the others," Aragorn whispered.

Eomer cursed and turned his own eyes to the delegation, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he studied them. "It could be innocent coincidence," he murmured. "Perhaps he but seeks fresh air and solitude for thought."

"Nay," Aragorn said firmly, his instincts now coming into play and blaring warnings through his mind. "Nay, this is no innocent coincidence. He plans something and we must find him ere he can carry out his intentions. Hurry!"

* * * *

Legolas sighed quietly and leaned back against the jagged lava rock of the cave wall, wrapping his arms around his chest and allowing the façade of elven invulnerability to drop from him. He’d been making some progress in adjusting to this new state of diminished senses, but the looming walls of the cave seemed to be tearing him apart all over again. It was like a physical manifestation of _ú-glîr_ that slowly closed upon him with the intention of smothering him under a blanket of darkness.At least when he visited the Glittering Caves, he could hear the whisper of sky and field through the large windows that Gimli had cut in the sides of the caves. It was less oppressive that way and spoke volumes on Gimli’s attempt to make the elf feel more comfortable whenever he visited. But now, despite the fact that the cave’s entrance was within sight, the sound of the outside world was lost and the prince might just as well have been locked within the bowels of the earth. Sundered from song, Legolas could not hear the quiet murmurs of the wind or the breathy whispers of trees. Gone were the sighs of green grasses, replaced by a silence so powerful and so overwhelming that the elf was sorely tempted to scream in order to fill the void. A fear of enclosed spaces and ultimate silence gripped the prince and he hugged himself tighter, pressing closer against the wall so as to put distance between himself and the other wall. Legolas had not felt this panicked since the fateful journey through Moria with the Fellowship, and the dark memory of that trip did very little for helping him deal with his current situation.

__

Calm, he told himself firmly, forcing a deep breath into his lungs and exhaling slowly. _The outside world is not far and I have friends further down in the cave. They have dealt with this silence all their lives, and if they can endure it, then so can I._ Legolas took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to let his fears drain away. He enjoyed a moment or two of success but he was still quite agitated, and even as he took yet another calming breath, his fears began to creep back into his soul. _I must turn my mind to other things_ , he realized with a sudden feeling of urgent desperation. _Else I shall drive myself mad!_

Opening his eyes in the hopes that he might find something of interest to occupy his wayward mind, he looked to the tunnel’s entrance where sand swept and swirled just beyond the rocks. The sight was actually quite fascinating, and Legolas began trying to pick out individual granules of sand so as to track their progress as they were carried by the winds that blasted the outside world. Had he the use of elven sight, he might have been able to do this, but that gift was gone and instead he beheld a blur of motion, swift and terrible as it attacked the desert and scored the land. Sight was impossible through this wall of sand, and he wondered if elven sight might be able to pierce the swirling dust that drew a veil over all. But he quickly stopped that line of thought. There was no use dwelling on what he did not have. Such thinking only made the feelings of inadequacy and helplessness worse, and those were things he did not need right now. With Eomer on the edge of a nervous breakdown and Aragorn crippled by self-doubt, Legolas could ill afford to add to their problems by sinking into a mire of despair and loathing. But that was exactly where he was heading, and it seemed that nothing in this forsaken desert could stop him!

A gentle snort behind the elf caused him to turn, startled, and he smiled as Faensul cautiously approached, lowering his head to butt Legolas gently in the shoulder. Raising a hand and stroking the stallion behind his ears, Legolas sighed and rested his forehead against his horse's cheek. Faensul whickered quietly, nuzzling the elf's neck and seeming to offer his silent support. Legolas's smile broadened and he lifted his head, gratitude shining in his eyes. " _Gwennig, meldirn. Gwennig an duludh_."

Faensul snorted at this but made no other answer as he stood completely still and imparted comfort to Legolas through his presence alone. Legolas continued to rub the stallion’s neck and he rested his head against the horse’s delicate face, whispering quiet words of gratitude and losing himself in the smell of horse and the feel of silky white hair against his cheek. Here was hope. Here was a distraction from the oppressive darkness as well as a link to the world of the elves. Together they stood, completely silent and intent only on one another’s company, together creating a barrier that might protect Legolas from the encroaching shadows. For a small eternity, all was right with the world. Then their moment was interrupted by a gruff but not unwelcome voice.

"If you were so desperate for companionship, you might have sought me out. As it is, I am rather insulted by the fact that you elect to stand with a horse rather than with a friend who is at least able to offer intelligent words."

Faensul sniffed indignantly and snapped his tail while Legolas stifled a laugh as he lifted his head and turned toward dwarf. "Come, _elvellon_ , if you are truly insulted, then why did you send Faensul before you when you came to search for me? You have been here nearly as long as he has, or so my diminished senses gather. Perhaps it is you who seek out companionship but fear to interrupt superior minds as they commune."

"Superior minds?" Gimli was spluttering indignantly and the elf once more had to fight back the urge to laugh.

"Peace, Gimli," Legolas said, smiling at the dwarf's expression of anger. "You know I speak in jest and that I consider you to be equal to Faensul so far as intelligence and companionship goes."

Faensul seemed to take as much offense at that as did Gimli, and Legolas could not forbear laughing this time as two outraged expressions were turned on him. "You are making far more enemies than friends, Master Elf," Gimli warned, stalking over and leaning against the wall next to his companion. "Be thankful that I am a patient dwarf, for you walk a dangerous line. Here."

Legolas suddenly found himself holding a full skin of water and he sent the dwarf a brief look of gratitude. "Thank you, Gimli. I was going to go myself, but…"

"It was nothing," the dwarf said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I advise you to finish that skin and take in all the water you are able. I shall refill our stocks ere we leave. According to Aragorn, there are no restrictions on the springs within these rock outcroppings and we may drink our fill. That horse of yours has already taken him at his word and I wonder that he can still walk for all the water that now sits in that bloated belly of his."

"He has carried us far with poor rations," Legolas said in defense of Faensul. "Does he not deserve to indulge himself when such indulgence is allowed?"

"Were I to ask you the same question of hobbits, your answer would be swift and resounding in the negative," Gimli shot back. "And this horse is very much like our friends the hobbits. Given the chance, they shall eat and drink until the larders are dry and they themselves are too round to fit through a doorway. I suspect that is why most of the doors in Hobbiton are circular. It is needed after large parties and banquets, of which there seem to be at least two a day!"

Legolas laughed again, and at his laugh, some of the cave’s darkness seemed to vanish. "And you believe Faensul to be no better than the hobbits?"

"No better and perhaps a bit worse," Gimli answered, ignoring Faensul’s indignant snort. "But you, my friend, do not indulge enough. Have I not just gifted you with a full skin of water? You have taken none of it!"

The elf smiled and dutifully took a drink of water. "Was that to your satisfaction?"

Gimli scowled. "You have not finished it."

"You have been around Aragorn too long. I will finish it ere sunrise, Gimli, I give you my word."

The dwarf muttered something disparaging about the word of certain elves and Legolas’s smile grew as he took another drink of water and rubbed his free hand along Faensul’s neck. A companionable silence fell between them as Gimli began watching the flying sand at the entrance of the cave and Legolas lost himself to the rhythmic stroking of Faensul’s back, something the horse approved of greatly as he whickered to encourage the elf. There was something soothing about the repetitive motion and with the horse on one side and Gimli on the other, Legolas felt his fears of the cave dwindle even more and fade until they were a mere flicker in the back of his mind, hardly worthy of notice. Back and forth, back and forth went his hand. Almost it seemed a rocking motion, like waves lulling a ship in calm waters. _And even under_ ú-glîr _, I still long for the sea_ , Legolas sighed with a shake of his head.

He passed his hand over the stallion’s back several more times, his mind following various tracks of thought, and then he started as Faensul suddenly moved, snorting and jerking his head. Pulled from his contemplation of swirling sand, Gimli looked over with an annoyed expression. "What bothers that horse now?"

"Someone comes," Legolas murmured, moving away from the wall and soothing Faensul with a quiet word. The elf could not yet hear footsteps, but he trusted Faensul’s senses implicitly. And more than that, his own instincts and sense of foreboding seemed to be acting up, though their warnings were vague and cloudy due to _ú-glir._ But despite the uncertainty, Legolas could tell that something dark was brewing and that evil deeds were planned. "Stay alert," he hissed by way of warning to Gimli. Passing a hand over the dagger in his belt to reassure himself of its comforting presence, Legolas deliberately turned his back on the dark cavern and faced the outside world, listening intently for the sounds that had already alerted Faensul.

Recognizing the elf’s strategy, Gimli frowned but nevertheless stepped away from the wall and joined Legolas. "You do realize that your senses may not be up to this," he whispered.

"That is why Faensul is with us."

"You place far too much trust in that horse. I am of the opinion that he is at least half-mule."

Legolas snorted, unable to hold back his laughter, and his mirth grew when Faensul stomped one hoof indignantly and neighed. But he sobered quickly and touched the haft of his knife once more. "My faith is not solely placed with Faensul," he said, his voice so soft that Gimli stepped closer in order to hear. "I also have great faith in you."

Gimli grunted but said nothing as Faensul suddenly snapped his tail and tossed his head, coal black eyes riveting themselves on the dark cavern behind elf and dwarf. Legolas closed his eyes and strained his hearing to the utmost, striving to learn who walked behind him. The swish of robes indicated he was Haradrim and the rub of the fabric was heavy, eliminating Dashnir who dressed in lighter cloth. Running through the list of delegates, Legolas decided that Garat would be a reasonable suspect. Of the others, only Fastahn seemed to have gotten over his superstitions regarding Legolas but he would have no reason to seek the elf out. Confident now in his guess, Legolas stepped back a bit and cleared his throat.

"Good evening to you, Garat."

There was a moment of silence and then a man’s cough sounded in the darkness. "Good evening to you, honored one."

Legolas smiled, congratulated himself with a small mental celebration, and then turned to watch the desert warrior as he shifted uncomfortably. "Do you seek company or merely the sight and smell of the world beyond the caves?" the elf asked, keeping his voice conversational but also adding an undercurrent of warning. Beside him, Gimli also turned and the dwarf moved to the side, putting distance between himself and the elf as though he expected to cover him in the event of an attack. Their language of battle was unmistakable and Garat smiled slightly, though his smile was grim.

"Perhaps I come for both," he said, moving forward quietly in a way that cried out to Legolas’s instincts. He was planning something, that much was obvious. The trick now was to discover what that plan was before it was put into motion. "Your company is strange, though," Garat continued. "In this land, we know little of elves and dwarves. Does my presence offend you? For you seem ill at ease."

"Then you do indeed know little of elves and dwarves," Legolas said. "We may seem ill at ease but rest assured that we are perfectly confident in what we do."

Garat’s smile widened as he caught the double meaning in that phrase and he inclined his head. "You would do well in the desert, should you ever choose to live here. You adjust to its ways quickly. Come, Legolas, let us have quiet words together. Perhaps you, Gimli, would be more comfortable deeper inside the caves."

"Nay, I find that I am quite comfortable here," the dwarf replied easily, but the flash of his eyes could not be missed.

"Then perhaps I could ask Legolas to accompany me for a bit, for I would speak somewhat with him in private."

"What my ears can hear, that also can Gimli’s ears hear," Legolas answered, folding his arms loosely across his chest and taking comfort in the presence of the bow across his back. "There are no secrets between us. Speak and be done."

Something dark blazed through Garat’s eyes, but it was quickly hidden and he regained his composure with a swiftness that might have been elven. "Your friendship is admirable but surely you grow tired of one another’s company. I would relieve you for a time, Gimli."

"If Legolas wished for other company, I very much doubt that he would come to you."

Garat tensed at this and Legolas narrowed his eyes as he watched the man. His elven sight might be gone, but his observational abilities and knack for catching the fine details of a situation were still quite sharp. Garat’s right hand was inching toward the flap of his outer robe where his curved sword was concealed, and Legolas felt his body tense in response to this. Forcing himself to relax slightly lest he provoke Garat to action, the elf cocked his head to the side and took a step back. "Do you truly desire to speak only with me?" Legolas asked, ignoring Gimli’s sudden look of protest. "If we travel to the entrance of this cave then we shall be out of earshot of the dwarf, for the sounds of the desert winds shall cover the sounds of our voices. Will this be more to your liking?"

The delegate from Warra hesitated and then slowly nodded. "I suppose I will accept your offer."

"Legolas, I—"

"Watch Faensul, Gimli, if you would," Legolas said, his voice firm and his eyes steady. Now was not the time for dwarven diplomacy, though Legolas longed to participate in a version of it himself. Now was a time for discovering the purpose behind Garat’s visit while minimizing risks and casualties. If his plans could be uncovered ere they were enacted, they could be nipped in the bud. Gesturing for Garat to precede him, Legolas threw a confident look at Gimli who rolled his eyes in response and shook his head adamantly. The elf shrugged, turned away, and followed Garat to the mouth of the cave.

"You are a danger to your king," the man began, getting straight to the point.

Legolas blinked, uncertain as to what his response should be. "Which king is that, for I serve actually several kings."

"The two kings within the cave system," Garat said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "You are a danger to them. I give you a choice. Leave now or force me to eliminate you as a threat."

For a long moment, Legolas said nothing and opted to watch Garat while the man squirmed beneath the power of an elven gaze. "And if I choose the third option?" he finally asked.

"I did not give you a third option."

"The third option was to remain with King Elessar and King Eomer despite your threats and warnings."

"Trust me in this, elf. That was not an option, nor will it become one."

__

The shadow! Elbereth, it has affected Garat as well! With this realization came a shiver of fear that steadily worked its way down Legolas’s back. When Garat did attack, there would be nothing to hold him back and the time for a parley would be officially and permanently over. _How did we not see this?!_ Legolas demanded of himself. _How could we not anticipate its effect upon our enemies?_ "Garat, perhaps we should rejoin the others and speak of this," Legolas said, his senses on the alert for even the slightest movement that would herald an imminent attack from the Warra delegate. "It seems to me that you fear a threat where there is none to be feared."

"Do not patronize me, elf!" Garat sneered. "I will have no more of your talk unless it is to give me your decision. And if you have not the ability, I shall make this decision for you."

"You know not what you do," Legolas tried again, moving his hand near to his own knife which still hung his side. He began edging toward Garat, for if he closed enough distance, the man would be unable to effectively wield his sword and by necessity any action would devolve into knife against knife rather than rapier against knife. And in a knife fight, Legolas was one of the best even among the elves.

"I know exactly what I do, and I see now that it should have been done long before we even reached the desert. You and that bearded creature are abominations! You should never have been allowed to step foot into Harad and I cannot allow you to live!"

"Gimli does not represent a threat to you, Garat, nor do I," Legolas said, keeping his voice low and soothing. _What is it that Garat wants? Upon what do his fears prey? For that shall be the essence of the shadow upon him._

"Who are you to tell me what is and is not a threat!?"

Legolas winced, all too aware that he had struck a nerve, but he was unable to formulate a response because Garat chose that moment to lunge. His sword rang as it was drawn, Gimli’s shouts and Faensul’s whinnies could be heard behind him, but Legolas’s mind had already sprang into gear. Spinning inside Garat’s guard ere the man could clear the sword of its scabbard, Legolas dealt him a fierce blow on the elbow and the sword went flying, landing harmlessly at Gimli’s feet even as the dwarf charged toward them.

But Garat wasn’t quite done yet. His right arm was now bent at an odd angle and it was obvious that Legolas had broken bone, but Garat’s left hand suddenly flashed forward with a knife. So quick was the movement that Legolas’s diminished reflexes were barely able to compensate and he felt the edge of the knife catch in his tunic, though it did not touch skin.

"Garat!" Legolas cried, even as he swept his long, silver-hafted knife out and parried the next blow. "Garat, cease this madness! You know not what you do!"

"None talk to me in such a way!" Garat snapped. "Not you, not that creature who rides behind you, and not Dashnir!" Saying this, Garat lunged again, slipping beneath the elf’s guard and Legolas’s body reacted automatically, muscle memory coming into play after centuries upon centuries of practice beneath the watchful eyes of perfectionist mentors. Jerking sideways and into a crouch, Garat’s knife whistled past one delicately-tipped ear at the same time that Legolas moved forward and slammed his body into Garat, intending to knock the man flat and buy himself time to backtrack and hopefully enlist the aid of others in restraining Garat.

But Legolas did not factor in his new limitations and found himself flying with the man, both of them sprawling past a charging Gimli, who was forced to leap to the side in an effort to avoid them. Legolas hit the ground hard, and he could not quite stifle a grunt as his shoulder and side scraped along a jagged rock wall. His forward progress was brought to an abrupt halt when his head slammed into a rock outcropping, and blackness tinged the edges of his vision. He was dimly aware that Garat was quickly regaining his feet and that Faensul was bearing down upon all of them, his flashing black eyes speaking of murderous intentions. Gimli was hurrying over as well, but Garat was by far the closest one, and with a last heroic effort, he lunged at the elf with a brandished knife and a cry of war.

With his mind suddenly feeling sluggish, it was Legolas’s automatic reflexes that once again saved him. Even as Garat attacked, Legolas rolled and swept his knife up in a high arc and at the crest of his arc, he stabbed. The elven blade bit deeply into Garat’s stomach and a spray of blood caught Legolas in the face ere he could roll clear. With an expression of complete and utter surprise as well as a good deal of shock, Garat clutched at his stomach where the knife was now lodged, hit the floor on his knees and froze for a moment, and then collapsed.

"Legolas!"

For perhaps the first time since Garat’s initial attack, Legolas realized his name was being called. Gimli was now at his side, unceremoniously dragging him away from Garat’s body, and Faensul was tossing his head restlessly with his large eyes following the elf’s every movement. A sudden commotion filled the tunnel, and not to be outdone by a horse and a dwarf, Aragorn suddenly appeared before Legolas, his questioning, concerned gaze one that could not be settled by an elven shrug, though Legolas tried. Then Eomer’s face joined the scene, there was another stirring of voices, and it seemed as though the entire company—Rohirrim, Gondorrim, Haradrim, and all—attempted to crowd into the tunnel.

"Legolas, what has happened here?!"

__

Aragorn can be very demanding when he wishes to be, Legolas mused absently as darkness continued to swim before his eyes. His head lolled to the side and he felt his body shifted about until his head became cradled by a broad shoulder. A thick beard tickled the side of Legolas’s face and he wondered what it would be like to grow such a thing. Surely it would disrupt a warrior’s balance with its cumbersome weight.

"Legolas! Legolas, look at me!"

There was Aragorn again. Knowing that the king would bother him until he answered, Legolas attempted to rouse himself from whatever stupor had come upon him, but a great lethargy now prevented his movements and the darkness over his vision was growing. Other voices were now assaulting his ears, and it seemed that the world was dissolving into a confused jumble of angry, demanding words. Darkness swept through him, he felt himself being shifted yet again by Gimli, and the dwarf’s face was the last one he saw before he could weather the storm no more and fell into a deep, consuming shadow.

 

__

Tolo—Come

__

Gwennig, meldirn. Gwennig an duludh—I thank you, my friend. I thank you for your help. (The Sindarin word for help also implies support and loyalty.)


	16. Return to Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Eomer had seen many things in his life. He had been a witness to the treachery of Gríma Wormtongue. He had watched as Saruman’s staff was broken and the wizard was cast from the order of the Istari. He had helped negotiate with the Wild Men in Druadan forest and as a result, he had seen the sun break over Minas Tirith in the midst of a terrible, hopeless siege. He had led the Rohirrim to the Morannon and had ultimately cemented the alliance between Rohan and Gondor when the King Elessar was crowned. Eomer would be remembered in history as one of the most traveled and most powerful kings of the Mark, but perhaps the thing that aided him most in his rule was neither his travels nor his prowess with the sword. Instead, it was his ability to watch and gauge emotions as they rolled across another’s face. Very few credited him with this talent as it was usually overshadowed by other abilities, but it had been finely honed and developed through years of circumventing ill policies set in motion by Wormtongue. Eomer had quickly learned where to push, when to push, and how hard he could push by watching the faces of Gríma and Theoden when they gave him instructions. Eomer did not always act wisely upon what he learned from watching the faces of others, but it was still a gift he possessed, and he found himself putting this gift into play now.

Gimli’s face was an interesting study, particularly because he was trying not to appear anxious for his friend. The dwarf was moving from irritation to frustration to anger to veiled concern to heavily guarded fear and then back to irritation with a speed that would have easily impressed Shadowfax. They had all returned to the wide cavern with the natural spring. Eomer and Aragorn had carried Legolas down here after managing to calm everyone down. Garat had also been brought down by Dashnir, but after a cursory examination, it was decided that nothing could be done for him save to make him comfortable and wait. Legolas, though, seemed only unconscious and Aragorn had assured them all that the elf would wake soon. For Gimli’s sake, Eomer hoped Aragorn was right. The dwarf’s emotional swings to the side of anger were becoming more frequent and more extreme.

"He’s dead."

Eomer froze and looked over as Aragorn joined him at Legolas’s side. "What?! But how? You said he would—"

"Garat, not Legolas," Aragorn swiftly amended. "Garat died a few minutes ago."

"Ah." Eomer’s fear died away, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli’s hand relax its grip on the elf’s shoulder. "How did Dashnir react to the news?"

"He didn’t." Aragorn pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nor has he accused Legolas of murder, which surprises me for he would be well within his rights to do so. He seems to think that Garat’s death and Gimli’s version of events are perfectly acceptable. I like it not, but it does give us a reprieve of sorts. Unfortunately…" Aragorn paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Unfortunately, not all the Haradrim are being so understanding."

"But did you not tell me that the Warra tribe has a tradition and a reputation for violence? Legolas has shown nothing in the way of aggression on this journey. What cause would they have to accuse him?"

"He is not Haradrim," Aragorn said. "And for some, that is enough. Fastahn is pressing for him to be bound and tried immediately."

"He’s not even conscious!" Gimli exploded, whipping around with flashing eyes.

"Peace," Aragorn said, catching hold of the dwarf’s shoulder with a firm grip. "Stay by Legolas and try to get some water into him. Your presence is needed here more than your axe is needed there."

"If they—"

"Gimli!" Aragorn’s grip on the dwarf’s shoulder tightened and Eomer began moving to the side in the event that two would be needed to restrain Gimli. "Gimli, we can ill afford an incident now. There are already too many factors against us without our adding to them. Let me deal with the Haradrim, son of Glóin. You may deal with Legolas when he wakes."

The dwarf blinked and then a smile stole over his face. "Very well. But I will handle Legolas in my own way."

Eomer wondered if this was actually an improvement over dwarven diplomacy. But then, based on what Gimli had reported earlier, the elf was more than deserving of what he had coming to him. Judging from Aragorn’s expression, the king of Gondor was of a like mind and quickly nodded. "He will be all yours," Aragorn promised. Releasing the dwarf, Aragorn then turned to Eomer and inclined his head slightly. "Will you join me? I think it wise if you also hear the complaints and grievances of the Haradrim."

__

How kind of you to include me, Eomer thought sarcastically ere he could stop himself. He froze, realizing what his mind was doing, and quietly groaned. It was starting again.

"Eomer?"

"It seems you were right, Aragorn," the king of Rohan said with a sigh, glancing toward the elf. "His presence and his shadow seem to be affecting us."

Aragorn mumbled something that might have been a curse, but as it was spoken quietly and in Sindarin, Eomer could not tell. "Would that I was wrong," Aragorn finally murmured. "Still, there is no help for it. We must press on with what strength is given us. At the very least, we now know the cause of our own failings. Legolas is blocked from Ilúvatar’s song with something akin to a dark wall, and when we are near him, our own feeble links to the song are also blocked by this wall." The king was silent for a moment and then seemed to shake himself, turning away and moving toward the Haradrim. "Come. Let us say what must be said ere our condition grows worse."

Eomer sighed and followed, trying not to feel the pinpricks of irritation for slights where no slights were intended. Despite Aragorn’s words, knowing the cause of this problem didn’t seem to be enough, and the king of Rohan feared it was only a matter of time before his jealousy and pride were enflamed to the point where his own self control was thrown by the wayside. "Know that I follow you, Aragorn," he said quietly, falling into step by the other man’s side. "I pray I am able to harness my own doubts and my own pride, but if I should fall prey to this darkness again, know that in my heart you are my liege."

Aragorn’s hand came up to rest on Eomer’s shoulder and he squeezed it slightly, a silent show of appreciation, gratitude, and encouragement. Then the moment passed and Aragorn moved away as they drew near the Haradrim, who greeted their arrival with hushed murmurs and not a few suspicious looks. _And well they should, for when this journey began, there were nine of them_ , Eomer reflected. Now there were only six. Mohart had been left at Dol Amroth with Imrahil, Dashnir had killed Bron, and now Legolas had killed Garat. _If nothing else, this diplomatic mission has been interesting. And anything but diplomatic._

Forcing his face to assume a rather inscrutable blank expression—something he’d learned from his wife Lothíriel who had learned it from her father Imrahil—Eomer swept his eyes over the remaining Haradrim delegation. They were not a happy group of desert nomads. Fastahn, in particular, looked as though he had swallowed one of the spiny lizards that Gimli claimed dwelt in Mirkwood and attacked unwary travelers with a little provocation from an elven prince. Eomer could hardly blame the man. As a representative from the Soltari tribe and a strong ally of Mohart’s Gartabo tribe, Fastahn had been shunned by Dashnir and subtly mitigated to the point where his influence was almost negligible and he knew very little of what happened. It appeared that the continual lack of information was telling on Fastahn, and he looked ready to demand explanations.

As for the other Haradrim, there were varying degrees of suspicion upon their faces. Meret of the Baki tribe, the mining tribe on the eastern border of Harad, seemed more confused than anything else, and Eomer could easily sympathize. He was feeling rather lost himself. Joshri of Baruna and Sarot of Indro, also from the eastern borders of Harad, seemed uncertain but leaning toward the side of condemnation for the foreigners. Arabano of Lotessa wore an interesting expression that Eomer had difficulty deciphering. He seemed almost…pleased. But at the same time, his was a reaction tempered greatly by caution and Eomer tried to remember all he had been told of the Lotessa tribe. They were warriors much like Khurintu and Warra, but they were from the far south and had no alliances with the other raiding tribes. During the course of the journey, Arabano had been a very silent traveler, speaking only when spoken to and almost going out of his way to avoid conversation. What cause would he have for his hidden mirth?

Eomer shook his head. In any case, the only members of the delegation who really mattered were Fastahn and Dashnir. Fastahn was important because of his alliance with Mohart—who should have led the delegation—and Dashnir was important because he actually did lead the delegation. Which led Eomer to the last object of his scrutiny.

Dashnir stood apart from the others, which was not unusual in and of itself, but there was an aloofness about him this night that seemed more severe than was his normal wont. After carrying Garat down here, Dashnir had moved aside and allowed Aragorn to look over the injured man. Eomer had left then, more concerned with Legolas than with Garat, but judging from Aragorn’s words, there had been nothing in the way of condemnation of accusation from Dashnir. _Why?_ From Eomer’s perspective, Dashnir would have everything to gain by dishonoring one of their number before representatives from tribes across Harad. _What is your game?_ Eomer wondered, studying Dashnir closely. _What do you hope to achieve and how does it involve us?_

"Where is the elf?"

__

So it begins, Eomer sighed, redirecting his attention to focus on the conversation. Fastahn’s tone of voice was anything but pleasant, and this did not bode well.

"Legolas is where we left him," Aragorn answered, his voice quiet but firm. "He has not yet regained consciousness. Surely you do not expect him to rise and walk away after a blow like that."

"I know not what to expect," Fastahn shot back. "All I know with any certainty is that I arrived in the upper levels of these caves to find Garat with an elven knife in his chest. And now Garat is dead. At this point, honored ones, I must express my doubts as to the sincerity of your visit to our land."

"It was you who invited us!" Eomer pointed out, feeling his blood boil. Fastahn had not liked Garat, but it seemed the man’s fears of the outside world were forcing him to side with the deceased. Eomer was sorely tempted to shake some sense into Fastahn and possibly call Gimli over to help, but Aragorn laid a hand on the young king’s shoulder and pulled him back slightly.

"Fastahn, you knew Garat well. You knew he was capable of impulsive acts. Trust me when I tell you that I know Legolas well," Aragorn said. "When he uses his weapons, he uses them in self-defense. It is not in his nature to kill, for as an elf, he reverences life."

"Forgive me if I cannot simply take you at your word," Fastahn sneered. "You are strangers here, and since you entered Harad, things have begun to happen. We were attacked by unknown raiders on our first morning here. Bron died that night. A sandstorm forced us into the Sihal when we were but hours away from Haradhur. And while we were trapped here, your elf and Garat fought, which fight ended in Garat’s death. In light of all this, I believe I am justified in my skepticism."

"I must point out several things you seem to have forgotten," Aragorn answered, and Eomer shivered at his tone. It was the same tone Aragorn had used just ere the armies of Gondor and Rohan had come to the Morannon. It was a tone of determination in the face of what might be construed as hopelessness, and Eomer wondered just how much trouble they were in. _But of course, Aragorn shall see that we find a way out of this trouble. He always does, for he is Aragorn._ And even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Eomer silently groaned and stepped back slightly, realizing he would be of no use to Aragorn if this continued.

"And what have I forgotten, _honored one_?" Fastahn demanded, his tone so condescending that Eomer found himself flinching.

"It was Bron’s tribe who attacked us that first morning here. And it was Dashnir who killed Bron. I do not recall that Eomer and I had anything to do with that."

"Even so, for the sake of prudence the elf must be bound and watched," Meret broke in. "I am against an immediate trial of his innocence, for I have seen how such trials go awry. But I urge against his being allowed to wander freely now that this has happened."

This was too much for Eomer, who had been struggling valiantly to reign in his impatience. Shouldering his way past Aragorn, he confronted the Haradrim with blazing blue eyes, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. "And what exactly has happened, Meret? A man has died by the hand of an elf. But what happened two days ago just ere we left Lake Supt? Another man died. Yet his killer still walks freely among us and you did not insist that he be bound and watched."

"You speak of things you cannot possibly comprehend," Fastahn hissed. "It is the way of the desert to destroy traitors ere their treachery can spread. Dashnir was well within his rights to kill Bron."

"Just as Legolas was well within his rights to defend himself."

"We do not know that!" Fastahn shouted. "You have only the word of the dwarf, and how may we trust him when his allegiance clearly lies with the elf?"

"Peace," Aragorn interrupted, forcefully pulling Eomer away from the Haradrim. "I understand your concerns, but Legolas is under Gondor’s protection. He has been taken into our custody and we shall decide what must be done. If you wish to challenge that, then you challenge our sovereignty and that is an affront to my honor. Or have customs changed so much in Harad that I am unable to discipline those of my own kingdom?"

"You ask that our customs be extended to you, honored one, but you are still strangers to our land," Fastahn said.

"Yet you would judge us by your laws despite the fact that we are foreign. Choose you one way or another, Fastahn, but do not mix rules and customs to fit the situation. I am perfectly capable of matching you in this, and we would but run circles around one another."

"King Elessar speaks rightly."

Everyone from Eomer and Aragorn to the Haradrim blinked and turned to stare at Dashnir. Eomer felt the hair rise along the back of his neck and somewhere deep inside his mind, warning bells began to ring. But he had nothing of substance to back the sudden cries of his instincts, so he watched and waited. In this, he was not alone. They all watched and waited while Dashnir slowly approached.

"I knew Garat perhaps better than any here," the delegate from Khurintu sighed. "And he was very impulsive. I do not find it difficult to believe that he would attack the elf. He revealed to me that he did not trust the elf, and I see now that this distrust went further than I believed."

"Why did you not warn us?" Eomer demanded, trying madly to figure out what this man was up to.

Dashnir smiled slightly and cocked his head. "Shall I come to you with all of my distrusts? For certainly we do not trust one another, King Eomer of Rohan. Shall I speak of it every time something strikes me amiss? Do you come to me with news of those who think ill of me? Of course not, for such is the game we play when strangers meet. I did not think Garat would be so brash as to act on his fears. Thus, I did not warn you. My apologies if you think I have erred in this, but I know not how I could have acted differently."

"Then you do not accuse Legolas of murder," Aragorn said, discreetly stepping in front of Eomer.

"No, I do not. And I ask you, Fastahn, to cease your accusations. Garat’s recent state of mind as it was revealed to me during our journey fits perfectly with the dwarf’s version of events. I do not believe the elf acted first. I accept that defense was his only motivation."

"If you do not accuse him, then neither do I accuse him," Fastahn said, though Eomer thought he caught a tone of reluctance in the man’s voice. "What say the rest of you?"

There was a moment of silence and then the other members of the Haradrim delegation either nodded or murmured their assent, some more willingly than others. Arabano looked as though he wished to speak and his gaze kept straying to Dashnir, but he held his peace and said nothing. At his side, Eomer felt Aragorn relax slightly and the king of Rohan wondered just how unlikely this particular outcome had been.

"My thanks to you," Aragorn said, his eyes fixing themselves on Dashnir. His expression was casual, but there was a note of suspicion in his voice that could not be hidden and Eomer saw Dashnir smile slightly. "If you will now excuse us, we shall see to Legolas so that when the time comes, we may be able to travel quickly."

"How does he fare?" Dashnir asked, his tone conversational.

"It will be difficult to tell until he regains consciousness," Aragorn answered.

"He has my wishes for a speedy recovery."

__

What game are you playing? Eomer demanded silently, watching Dashnir closely. This man was one puzzle after another. The moment he seemed to reveal his true intentions, everything would change and so would Dashnir. What did this man hope to accomplish? Out of the corner of his eye, Eomer could see Aragorn stiffening and knew his doubts were shared, but it seemed that neither one of them had any answers.

"I shall convey your good wishes," Aragorn said. "My thanks on Legolas’s behalf." And with that, Aragorn turned and walked away, beckoning slightly for Eomer to follow. _And of course he expects me to follow, for Rohan has ever followed Gondor’s lead, be it into grave danger or great folly. Have we truly sunken so far that we must obey their every whim and move as a suckling foal must obey its mare?_ "Eomer?"

Shaken from his thoughts and brought to a realization of where those thoughts were taking him, Eomer blinked and stepped back. "My apologies," he murmured, wondering if they should put Legolas in isolation. At least Gimli seemed to be keeping his senses intact. Not able to meet Aragorn’s concerned, questioning gaze, Eomer brushed past the other king and moved toward Gimli and Legolas.

The dwarf had Legolas’s head cradled in one arm while his free hand tipped a water skin upwards. From his angle, Eomer could not tell if the elf was getting any of the precious liquid, but the very sight caused a smile to steal across his face. This would be something he could use against the dwarf if ever there was a need for blackmail.

"Is he taking water?" Aragorn asked when they reached the pair. Gimli seemed to jump at their arrival, apparently so involved in his nursing duties that he had not heard their approach. Eomer decided to mark that down for later use as well. Even if blackmail was unnecessary, it could easily be used as fodder for banter and good-natured ribbing.

"He has had some water, and he does swallow reflexively on his own," Gimli answered, hastily placing Legolas back on the ground and moving a safe distance away. "How do things stand with the Haradrim?"

"Legolas is not accused of murder," Aragorn answered. "But there are politics involved in this that do not bode well, yet I know not what to make of them." The king shook his head, grimaced, and then bent down to examine the elf. "How much water has he taken?"

"Not enough for my liking," Gimli replied, moving aside for Aragorn. "However, you may be assured that he will have more when he wakes, for I will see to that myself."

Aragorn laughed quietly. "I am certain that you will, Master Dwarf, and I hope that Legolas appreciates your attentions as much as he ought."

"Elves have difficulty with gratitude," Gimli said with a shrug. "But I will see to it that he does not soon forget my pains on his behalf."

Eomer snorted, remembering the many times Gimli had mentioned his great restraint in not severing the king’s head from his shoulders because of ill-spoken words concerning the Lady Galadriel. The dwarf was not one to allow another to forget gratitude owed, but to his credit, he did not soon forget gratitude that he himself owed. And Gimli always repaid his debts. "I am certain that in his heart, he knows and understands your concern," the king of Rohan said.

"Concern?" Gimli shook his head and glared at the elf. "Frustration would hit closer to the mark. He is overly confident and no longer has the abilities to back that stubborn elven pride. If he does not soon learn to accept limitations, I shall be forced to doctor him all the way back to Anduin."

"Whether it be concern of frustration, Gimli, channel and use it well," Aragorn advised. "The sun is near to rising and we shall be staying here for the day. Let us hope that you can set Legolas back on his feet by nightfall, for we must be on our way come evening."

"Has the storm subsided then?" the dwarf asked.

"I know not," Aragorn murmured, glancing toward the tunnel that would lead them to the outside world. "But I think that perhaps I should check. Eomer, would you accompany me? Fresh air may help clear our heads. Imhran and Arhelm should be able to handle matters in our absence."

Knowing exactly what Aragorn meant when he spoke of clearing heads, Eomer quickly nodded. "It will be good to change our scenery." He started to leave but then stopped, frowning. "Think you that Arhelm and Imhran shall be in danger?"

Aragorn pursed his lips and glanced toward Legolas and Gimli. "They have not been around him as we have, and their loyalty to us should prevent things from falling too far out of control. However, your words are prudent and perhaps a rotating watch should be set, with some men spending time in the upper levels for safety’s sake."

"Then let us go, and when we return, we shall set the order of the watch," Eomer said. "I feel the need for clear thought and fresh air ere I take such action, for at the moment, I know not if I trust myself."

"You speak for me as well," Aragorn sighed, his face twisting into an expression that Eomer could not read though he thought he caught a hint of frustrated anger. "Come, then, and let us not be long lest others suffer our fate."

* * * *

Gimli sighed and rubbed his back against the rock wall, wondering how close to sunset it was. The day had dawned even as the sandstorm lifted, or so Eomer had reported, and they would be moving again the moment the sun sank. At least, that was the plan, but Legolas had yet to recover consciousness.

Glancing at his silent friend, the dwarf frowned and looked for signs that Legolas might be waking. The elf had taken water readily enough throughout the day, swallowing it reflexively when it was offered, but his eyes had remained shuttered and he had neither moved nor called out. It was unusual for an elf to be unconscious for so long, and Gimli wondered just how much _ú-glîr_ was affecting his friend in this. Legolas seemed to be sickening and growing weaker as time went on. Perhaps elves needed the speech of other living things to rejuvenate them and grant them strength. Perhaps he simply hit his head harder than they initially suspected. _And perhaps something is wrong that he has managed to hide from us._ Gimli shook his head. That would no be beyond the elf, and if that were indeed the case, Legolas would be certain to hear about it.

Still, at this point in time Gimli was willing to give his friend the benefit of the doubt and assume the knock to his head had simply been unusually hard. Checking to see that he was not being watched, the dwarf pushed himself off the wall and knelt by Legolas’s side, brushing a hand across the elf’s brow and then pausing to check his pulse and breathing. It felt as though his heart was racing. Legolas’s heart had always seemed to beat rather quickly and Aragorn said it was the same for most elves, but this felt unusually fast, even for Legolas. Reaching for a skin of water, Gimli gingerly propped the elf’s head up and trickled a bit of water into his mouth. As before, the water was automatically swallowed and then Legolas was still again.

"I see he is not yet awake."

Gimli managed to refrain from jumping, though he did set Legolas back down rather quickly and managed to drop the water skin in the process. _If only Aragorn would make some noise when he approached. Or at least announce his presence like a normal king whenever he came back down from the upper levels._ "Not yet," the dwarf answered, turning to look at Aragorn. "How long do we have?"

"An hour or so," Aragorn sighed, kneeling beside Gimli and checking the elf’s pulse. "He should have awakened by now."

The dwarf grunted, and glanced around the cavern, wondering who was here on this particular watch. For some reason, Aragorn and Eomer had decided to institute rotating guards, with part of their forces on the upper levels and the other part down here with the Haradrim. It seemed to set Dashnir on edge, but beyond that Gimli had yet to find a purpose to it. Of course, he was concentrating more on Legolas than on deciphering the watch rotations, but he wasn’t about to admit that. "Where is Eomer?" the dwarf asked when the silence began to stretch into minutes.

"The upper tunnels. He and the Rohirrim are more comfortable when they are closer to the outside world."

"Perhaps Legolas would be more comfortable there as well," Gimli mused.

"Perhaps, though in his condition one must wonder if such a thing would make a difference."

Gimli sighed, knowing well what Aragorn referred to. Without his elven senses, Legolas was probably unable to tell exactly how deep in the caves he was. Here or by the entrance, it made no difference. Rubbing his temples, Gimli picked up the water skin he had dropped at Aragorn’s surprise approach and discovered that he had spilled most of the water.

"I will go," Aragorn volunteered, taking the skin from the dwarf ere he could protest. "Stay with Legolas. See if you can wake him."

"Wake him?" Gimli echoed as Aragorn moved away, glancing at the elf with raised eyebrows. "At this point, I think waking my father after a night of drinking might be an easier task." With a shake of his head, the dwarf bent and took Legolas by the shoulder, shaking him gently but insistently. "Legolas! Come, Master Elf, you shall make us late and soil the spotless reputation of the elves insofar as punctuality is concerned. Legolas?" Gimli shook the elf again. "Legolas, I refuse to ride Faensul without your presence to control him. Prince of Mirkwood, is this the reputation of your father and your family? Elves do not lie silent when there are deeds to be done. Wake, Legolas!"

The dwarf was certain that the reference to Legolas’s father might stir something and Legolas did seem to mumble a bit, but other than that, there was no sign that the elf was waking.

"If I didn’t know better, I would say you were doing this purely to annoy me," Gimli muttered, shaking Legolas again. "Fortunately for you, I saw you hit your head on that rock, and I am willing to play this game for a while. But if you do not wake soon, you will have more to answer for than simply wandering off alone with Garat. You are already in enough trouble, my friend."

"Still not awake?" Aragorn asked as he returned with a full skin of water.

"No." Gimli pursed his lips and glanced around. "Are the Haradrim watching us?"

Aragorn frowned. "Not at the moment. Why do you ask?"

"Because I am about to do something that will probably not sit well with them," the dwarf answered, taking the water skin. Uncorking it, he raised Legolas’s head and then tossed the water full in the elf’s face. A spluttered coughing could be heard, and Legolas murmured something as he began to turn his head from side to side.

"You are correct," Aragorn said with a muffled laugh. "The Haradrim would not approve of such a waste of water."

"You said he had to be up," Gimli answered, not the least bit repentant. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me yet or shall I do that again?"

"Gimli?"

"Close, but you are not yet close enough," Gimli said. "Open your eyes, prince of Mirkwood. Prove to me that you are indeed awake."

With a tired sigh, heavy lids slowly lifted, revealing gray eyes that seemed painfully dull and lifeless compared to their usual brightness. Knowing that Legolas would attempt to minimize his weakness before others, Gimli wondered just how much of a toll was being taken on the elf for him to reveal even this much. Clearly this had all gone too far, and if Aragorn and Eomer refused to act, Gimli could not promise to restrain himself in the near future.

"Welcome back, Legolas," Aragorn said, interrupting the dwarf’s thoughts and assisting Legolas as he sat up. "You slept long. How do you feel?"

The elf grimaced slightly and rubbed the back of his head. "I feel as though I have been caught between Gimli’s hammer and Durin’s anvil," he confessed, shocking Gimli with his honesty and his frankness. "Other than that, I seem to be faring well. How fares Garat? For when last I saw him, he did not look well."

Gimli snorted. "No, he did not. And there was good reason for that, Legolas, because your knife had just entered his stomach."

"Garat died several hours ago," Aragorn informed him. "There was nothing we could do."

"My apologies," Legolas murmured. "I fear I have complicated matters by this."

"Better to complicate matters than to force us to carry your corpse through the desert," Gimli stated firmly. "There are ways of solving complex issues, but I am afraid we have not the power to restore you to life."

"Nay, I suppose that none here have that power," the elf whispered, his expression going blank and his eyes glossing over. "Or if they did, they should not wish to lift this veil of darkness from my mind."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Gimli spoke, hoping to snap his friend out of his growing depression. "As I have stated before, pity is unbecoming the son of Thranduil. Would your father behave so, Legolas?"

"No," the elf answered slowly. "No, my father would lop off a few dwarven heads to relieve his frustration. Are you volunteering your services for this, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli grumbled something under his breath and made a show of rolling his eyes, though he was secretly pleased. At least Legolas seemed to be recovering some of his humor. "If you think to use my neck as a means of venting your anger, you hit your head harder than I thought."

"In any case," Aragorn added with a quiet laugh for their banter, "we have dealt with any complications you might have incurred. The Haradrim have no wish to accuse you of murder, and it seems Garat was not well liked as a general rule."

"But surely he was more well liked than I," Legolas said, his eyes narrowing.

"Dashnir spoke in your defense," Aragorn said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "At his word, the others backed away."

Legolas stared at Aragorn as though unable to comprehend this news, and Gimli wondered if revealing such information had been wise. Still, there was nothing to be done for it now, and he laid a reassuring hand on the elf’s shoulder to impart his own support. "Whatever his plans, we will stop them," the dwarf promised, capturing Legolas’s gray eyes with his own.

"I hope you are right, Gimli," Legolas said, getting to his feet and wincing at the sudden movement this required. Gimli hastily stepped behind him while Aragorn surreptitiously drifted before the elf, and they waited to see that he could maintain his balance. Legolas glared at both of them, not fooled in the least, and stepped away, wobbling slightly but staying upright. "What is the time?"

"We have slightly less than an hour before sunset," Aragorn said. "We should begin preparations to set out so that we may do so at the earliest moment. I would like to scout Haradhur ere the Gathering begins tomorrow night."

Gimli could not remember the elf looking so surprised. If Legolas had been a man, his jaw would have dropped. As it was, both eyebrows shot up and gray eyes blinked twice with amazement, which was the most amount of surprised facial animation that Gimli had seen on any elf. Clearing his throat to catch his friend’s attention, Gimli stepped to Legolas’s side and inclined his head toward the horses. "Faensul is eager to see you, or so I gather from his activities. He was loath to leave your side. Shall we prepare him for the ride and ascend into the upper tunnels?"

"When…when did Garat approach us?" Legolas asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to account for missing time.

"Three, perhaps four hours before dawn," Gimli said, exchanging concerned looks with Aragorn.

"Then I have been unconscious for—"

"Your head took quite a blow and you are not completely well," Aragorn interrupted. "Do not dwell on it, my friend. We need you alert and ready. Go with Gimli and prepare Faensul." The king stepped closer and offered a small smile. "That was not a suggestion, lord of Ithilien."

Legolas returned the smile weakly and nodded, turning away and moving toward the horses. Gimli fell into step at his side, lengthening his stride to keep pace with the elf and watching his friend closely. "It was not your fault," he offered.

"What was not my fault? Garat’s death or my own incompetence?" Legolas asked, his voice bitter. "I do not mourn overmuch for Garat. Any loss of life is grievous, but the man was a threat to us. But as for my own abilities…" The elf trailed off and shook his head. "I am but a hindrance to you. Should we find ourselves beset by raiders again, I will only be a burden."

"When have you been anything but a burden?" Gimli demanded, deciding that insults would probably work better than condolences. "As I remember it, I was watching your back all the way through the Paths of the Dead."

Legolas sighed. "Gimli, from your position behind me on Arod, it was impossible for you to see anything but my back. Do not change the subject."

"The subject is hardly conducive to your wellbeing."

"My wellbeing is in jeopardy and we must recognize this."

"We recognized it two days ago!" the dwarf said, rounding on the elf and fixing him with dark, glaring eyes. "Will you never cease to agonize over this? Others have faults and missteps, but apparently you are above all of that. If you are not perfect, you are useless."

"I did not mean—"

"Yes, you did," Gimli shot back, not giving Legolas a chance to respond. "Your elven pride is doing more harm than your lack of senses. Accept the fact that you’ve been brought down to the level of mere mortals and move forward!"

"I have never disparaged mortal abilities," Legolas protested.

"No? Your actions say otherwise." The dwarf was now angry, frustrated, and above all else, disgusted. And he intended to see that Legolas did not easily get away with his behavior. "You have done nothing but bemoan your lost senses and complain of their limited abilities. My friend, your diminished senses are comparable to my senses. You diminish me when you indulge in self-pity. Cease this!"

Legolas stared at the dwarf for a long time, his face expressionless, and then he eventually turned away. "My apologies, _elvellon_. You are right. My behavior has been inexcusable."

"Good," Gimli said, feeling some of his anger drain away. "And now that we understand one another on this point, we must turn to another matter. What were you thinking when you allowed Garat to lead you away?!"

"I was thinking that mere mortal abilities were more than adequate to deal with him," Legolas responded with a small smile.

Gimli snorted. "Mere mortal abilities would have been more than enough, but you are not yet used to them and you react as if you still had all your elven heritage to fall upon. You do not. And until you have completely adjusted to this, you cannot afford to take risks such as the one you took last night."

"What could I have done differently?" Legolas asked. "Refusal to speak with Garat might have had far worse consequences. As it was, I managed to disarm him and minimize damage to myself."

"He might not have attacked had you stayed with me."

"Or he might have used one of us as a hostage against the other, for in close quarters, two against one can at times be a disadvantage."

The dwarf sighed and shook his head. "However you may argue it, you and I both know that meeting with Garat alone was a foolish move. Do not do it again."

Legolas’s smile grew. "And who are you to order me?"

"I am the only one who has any hope of talking some sense into that flighty elven head of yours," Gimli answered. "And I take my responsibilities seriously."

"Ah. It is well that I have such an attentive caretaker. I suppose you shall be turning down my blankets also ere I retire for bed."

"You are hopeless," Gimli declared, turning away and resuming their walk toward the horses. Faensul looked up at their approach and whinnied a greeting, hurrying toward them and almost knocking Legolas over in his enthusiasm to greet the elf. "It seems hopelessness is not exclusively yours," the dwarf observed.

"Yes, alas. I fear I have acquired my hopelessness from you."

"I was referring to the demon currently assaulting you."

Faensul snorted indignantly, but he did not pause to send the dwarf one of his stern glares for he was too busy butting his head against Legolas. Laughing, the elf caught hold of the horse’s mane and braced himself as the stallion proceeded to reprimand the prince in his own way. At least in this, Gimli and Faensul were of one mind, and the dwarf vowed not to let Legolas out of his sight until this journey was through. He suspected the horse had made a similar promise, if the horse was capable of such thoughts.

"Are you quite finished?" Gimli asked after a moment when there seemed to be a lull in Faensul’s scolding head butts. "Or shall the rest of us proceed without you?"

"We are coming," Legolas said, stroking Faensul’s neck and speaking quietly to the horse. "And as for proceeding without us, I fear you do not travel quickly enough for that, Master Dwarf. It is beyond me how you can move anywhere on such short legs."

With a grumble and a shake of his head, Gimli secured his axe firmly in his belt and started for the tunnel that would take them to the surface. Though his face gave the appearance of indignation, he was inwardly rejoicing. So long as he could keep Legolas’s humor intact, they would get through this. Listening as the elf and horse followed him into the dark tunnel and smiling at the quite grumble of unease this inspired in Legolas, he set his sights ahead of him and forged into the darkness.

Neither he nor Legolas saw the figure cloaked in shadows who followed them.


	17. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

The setting sun bathed the scorching desert in colors of pink, orange, and red. The black surface of the Sihal became as a mirror, reflecting the sun’s blinding light back into the desert and adding to it a hint of darkness. It was a beautiful sight in a wild and untamed land, and it was all the more breathtaking for the simple fact that this land would never bow to a master. It would be forever defiant before men, able to kill and maim at whim and fancy, but at times the land deigned to grace men with a beauty that might move one to tears. It was a sea of sand, and its tide was composed of light and shadows, good and evil, changing from one to another with the passage of days and the endless march of years.

But not all were entranced by the display of light and color on the desert’s horizon. Having seen it before and knowing it for merely an act that covered the desert’s true nature, Dashnir stood pressed against a rock wall just inside the tunnels, purposefully keeping his eyes away from the horizon’s light show. Unobserved and shrouded by darkness, he watched quietly as the Rohirrim alternated between watching the sunset and loading their horses. They spoke quietly among one another, laughing and offering subdued songs in honor of the desert’s harsh beauty. By contrast, the Gondorrim were more circumspect, talking occasionally but for the most part carrying out their duties in silence with only one or two awed glances spared for the sunset. As for their leaders, Aragorn and Eomer stood off to one side, conversing in the dimming light and seemingly oblivious to the outside world. Finally, the Haradrim delegates were seeing to their own mounts, keeping a safe distance away from the foreigners and completely ignoring the sunset, for to become fascinated by it was to allow the desert that much more control over oneself.

__

But perhaps awe in the face of beauty is preferable to the thoughts that plague me now. For of a surety, I am close to failure. Dashnir shook his head and sighed. He should have known better, and he blamed himself for Garat’s fall. He should have seen the signs and moved to stop the other man. It wasn’t that he grieved for Garat’s loss, but there had been uses for him in Haradhur and those uses would now have to be filled by others less skilled. Yet Dashnir himself was also affected by this shadow, and he had not read the warning signs until it was too late and Garat’s blood had already stained the ground. This was an unforeseen development and one that Dashnir would have to face without consulting Asbad. He needed his wits clear and he needed Gondor and Rohan to appear at their best when they entered Haradhur. The shadow upon this company had to be lifted. How this was to be accomplished, he did not know, but it had to be done soon. With each passing moment, the shadow over the elf spread and enveloped more in its grasp.

__

We should have anticipated this, Dashnir thought bitterly. _Or rather,_ I _should have anticipated this._ He had broken the connection with Eru’s song before, but he had only done it in men. For them, the blocking spell did not need to be as strong, as a man’s connection to the song was so weak as to be laughable. But for an elf, Dashnir had been forced to set up a wall the likes of which he had never created before, and he should have recognized then that this wall would spread to others. _And yet I did not. Possibly I was affected from the very beginning, and I know that I am still affected._

Rubbing his brow, Dashnir tried to concentrate and achieve a mindset of strategy and calculation. The shadow had to be removed, and he could see three ways that this might be accomplished. First, there was Garat’s suggestion that Legolas be killed. This was the easiest option as far as actual implementation, but the consequences were great and Dashnir veered away from it. It was still an option and he still considered it, but he decided it would be a last resort. Another option would be to somehow separate Legolas from the company and strand him in the desert, which would essentially kill him as well but this option might be done in such a way as to alleviate suspicion. Of course, it was possible that Aragorn and Eomer would refuse to lead the company on to Haradhur without the elf, and Dashnir relegated this idea to the realm of last resorts along with his first plan. Finally, the spell could be taken from Legolas. This would return the elven senses to the elf, it would be impossibly difficult to carry out, but it held the least long-term consequences and could be remedied when the company reached Haradhur if it was needed. It was by far the best option, but it was also next to impossible. After Garat’s attack on the elf, the men of Gondor and Rohan were on their guard and the dwarf was refusing to let Legolas stray out of his sight. Even now, as the elf assisted in packing the baggage horses, Gimli was close by and watching.

Somehow, the dwarf would have to be diverted, for the wall had to be removed from Legolas tonight. Dashnir had regained most of the strength he’d lost when misting Eomer’s memory, and he felt confident that he could now take the shadow from the elf’s mind. But he had to catch him alone. He had secretly followed Legolas and Gimli up from the main cavern, hoping that in some dark passage he might accomplish his appointed task, but such was not to be the case. The dwarf was always within arm’s reach of the elf, the elf appeared to have recovered from the blow to his head and would be quite capable of using his weapons if attacked, and the elf’s horse had been skittish and alert, possibly sensing Dashnir’s presence behind them.

__

Perhaps murder is the only choice open to me, Dashnir reflected. _And yet even that would be difficult to arrange. Surely, though, the elf and dwarf will grow tired of one another’s presence. Surely one will wish for a break from the other._

Dashnir stretched his mind back over the course of the journey starting with Dol Amroth and tracking every step of the way until he reached the Sihal where they had taken shelter from the sandstorm. He remembered a few instances in which one had left the other, but not many. They were a nearly inseparable pair, and since the casting of _ú-glîr_ , rarely had they been apart at all for it seemed as though the elf relied upon the dwarf for almost everything. But surely there was something that would drive them apart, even for only a small moment…

And then, like the first spark of a fire appearing in the darkness of night, and idea came to him. It was a simple idea and one that left much to chance, but it was the only thing that Dashnir had to work with. And in light of his press for time, the risk of failure was a risk that he would have to take. In any event, he was not going to sit idle while plans that had been laid down and developed for years were thrown away because of a careless miscalculation on his part. The shadow over Legolas was of his making, and he intended to see that the problems it caused were remedied. Gondor and Rohan would make a strong entrance in Haradhur, the other tribes would feel of their might and strength, and then those same tribes would worship the ones who overthrew the foreign kingdoms.

__

Or, I shall fail and such a future will be lost to us until the time comes again and the stars align favorably for us, Dashnir thought, reminding himself that he could not afford to lose his mind to dreams of the glories that were to come. His people had not heeded their foresight in past days, but that had changed since Asbad had become the tribal head and appointed Dashnir as his second. Things were different now. They would not repeat the mistakes of the past, nor would they suffer the tragedies that had befallen them to darken the horizons of the future.

His confidence rebuilt, Dashnir disentangled himself from the shadows he had woven as a guard against detection and moved away from the towering rocks of the Sihal. With a sharp eye for all that went forth around him, the man took the reins of his horse and mounted, spurring the animal toward the others as they began mounting. His plan would have to wait until a halt was called for the horses, and he would need all his strength in order to influence those that had to be distracted as well as remove Legolas’s shadow. But Dashnir had not spent sleepless days in conference with Asbad over the minute details of their plan only to let it die here. Fixing a blank expression on his face, Dashnir nudged his horse in the direction of Fastahn. There was much to be done.

* * * *

"How is it that a land so hot during the day can be so cold at night?" Gimli demanded, his hands on Legolas’s waist shaking slightly with chill as Faensul carried them effortlessly over the desert sand.

"There are no clouds to trap the sun’s warmth, Master Dwarf," Legolas answered. "Nor is there aught here that can store the heat much as the Long Lake does for the men of Lake-town. This land is without the blanket of plants, and the chill of night’s touch is unrestrained."

"Thank you for the lesson," Gimli growled as he rolled his eyes. "My question was rhetorical, but since you seem up to answering it, perhaps you could also do something about it."

"About what?"

The dwarf sighed, wondering how elves could be so enlightened and yet at the same time so dense. "About the temperature. Could we not find a happy medium in this climate?"

"Sunrise and sunset seems to be such times."

"Then why cannot the entire day be like those times?"

The elf glanced over his shoulder and raised one fair brow at Gimli. "Do you truly know nothing concerning the seasons and the role of the sun? If this is indeed the case, I shudder to think of what might become when all the Eldar have departed from Middle Earth. We shall leave it in the hands of dwarves and men, and if all dwarves are as ignorant as you seem to be—"

"Is there no elf in all of Arda who can recognize a rhetorical question?!"

Gimli thought he heard a faint chuckle on the part of Legolas and the dwarf inwardly smiled, glad that he was able to maintain the elf’s good humor. Unfortunately, it also meant he was losing this particular verbal sparring match, and that did not sit right with the dwarf. He would have to tip the scales in the near future, but for now, he was content to let Legolas enjoy the upper hand.

"What is the objective in rhetorical questions?" Legolas asked. "For questions are intended to illicit knowledge and information. Rhetorical questions do none of this."

"They are meant more for silent answers and contemplation," Gimli said. "I would think that elves of all beings would appreciate their value in that respect."

"And we do, but what I cannot fathom is their use to a dwarf, for it is well known that dwarves would see no worth in contemplation. Indeed, for most dwarves, their self-identity would not bear up under contemplation, and their stubborn pride would be brutally destroyed by such an event."

"I am surprised that elven arrogance can withstand heavy contemplation," Gimli snorted.

"Is that truly surprising for you? Surely you must realize that elven arrogance is only furthered by contemplation," Legolas said, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. "When thinking of ourselves and realizing how superior we are, we cannot help but be strengthened, and at times, this adds to our arrogance."

The dwarf rolled his eyes, but his search for a suitable response to this was interrupted by a call for a halt from Aragorn and Eomer. Faensul snorted at this, but he obediently slowed his pace to a walk at Legolas’s urging. For his part, Gimli was glad of the break. He felt the need to stretch his legs, and though Haradhur was close enough that the horses probably did not need to stop, the riders certainly did. _Or this rider at least,_ the dwarf thought to himself, dropping off the back of the horse and thanking the Valar for the feel of solid ground beneath his feet again. He looked up as Legolas joined him on the ground, giving Faensul a pat and a quiet word that Gimli thought meant something about staying close. The horse shook his head and pawed at the sand, seemingly restless.

"He is filled with energy tonight," Legolas murmured, stroking the stallion’s neck. "The rest and the water have done him good."

"Good?" Gimli grimaced. "Good for him, perhaps, but harm for me. Cannot this creature of yours travel the land without seeking out every bump and dip?"

"One cannot ride, Master Dwarf, without expecting the occasional jostle," a new voice spoke up. "I would think you had learned that by now. And as for Legolas’s horse, you would be hard-pressed to find a steadier gait."

"Your opinion does not count, Eomer," Gimli growled. "You have been upon the back of a horse so long that you do not know what it means to walk with a steady gait."

Eomer laughed and shook his head, absently rubbing Shade’s nose as his own stallion decided he wanted part of the attention. "And I suppose you consider your own manner of walk to be a steady one?"

"Being so close to the ground, it can be nothing but steady," Legolas interjected. "He is so short as to be able to see all things that crawl meekly upon the earth and so adjust his stride."

At this point, Gimli decided the sparring had become unfair, for now Eomer had joined with Legolas against the dwarf. Beyond that, Eomer was fairly good at verbal warfare in his own right and Gimli had enough to deal with in battling Legolas alone. He did not need the horse-lord stepping in. This called for a serious upgrade in arsenal, and the dwarf began scouring his memory and his faculties for ammunition.

Unfortunately, Gimli was not allowed to pursue his latest plans for he was interrupted again. This time, though, the new participants were far less welcome. Fastahn and Dashnir stepped forward, lowering their protective scarves as they approached the group. Gimli instinctively glided closer to Legolas as a means of protection, and Legolas edged away from the dwarf with quiet indignation. Gimli shot his friend a sharp glare and jerked his head, indicating for the elf to step back. In response, Legolas narrowed his eyes and stepped even further away, one hand straying to the haft of his knife and the other tightening into a fist.

__

Fool, Gimli thought as his frustration began to mount. _Until you are fully adjusted, you cannot stand alone as once you did. Let me help you, stubborn elf!_

But Legolas would not be coddled and looked away from the dwarf, turning his attention to the Haradrim who stopped and bowed slightly before them. "Honored ones," Fastahn said by way of greeting, and Eomer nodded back, stepping forward and taking the lead as was his right.

"May we assist you in some way?" he asked politely, though Gimli judged from the way his hand kept straying to the hilt of his sword that Eomer wished to be anything but polite.

"A small matter, actually, but one that has intrigued us," Fastahn answered. "Upon occasion, we have seen smoke from Gimli’s mouth as well as from the mouth of the King Elessar. Pardon our curiosity, but we are puzzled as to this."

Suspicion was quick to rise in Gimli. _Smoking? What need have the Haradrim to inquire as to smoking?_ The dwarf glanced at Legolas for answers, but the elf seemed equally baffled, his brows knit together and his lips pursed in thoughtful contemplation. Gimli turned his attention then to Eomer, but the king of Rohan appeared to have no more answers than did the other two. But Fastahn and Dashnir were waiting expectantly for a response of some kind to their query, and Eomer shot a quick look at Gimli, inviting the dwarf to step forward.

"Smoking, Fastahn," Gimli eventually said, and though his suspicion continued to rise, he was hard-pressed not to laugh when Legolas grimaced in disgust. "Inhalation from burning pipe-weed. It is quite relaxing and quite pleasurable."

"You would go out of your way to inhale smoke?" Dashnir asked, his voice laced with confusion.

"Not only to inhale smoke but also to affect others around them with its noxious fumes," Eomer said and Legolas nodded in fervent agreement, though the mirth on both their parts was tempered with caution.

"Some here will never understand," Gimli sighed, watching Dashnir and Fastahn out of the corner of his eye.

"And I pray that I will always be among their company," Legolas said.

"What goes forth here?"

Gimli turned as Aragorn strode toward them, silently grateful that the king of Gondor was here to listen to this. Perhaps he would find something in their conversation that the others missed and so unravel somewhat of the Haradrim’s motives.

In contrast, Eomer did not seem so pleased with Aragorn’s arrival. "By your leave, we are discussing smoking," the horse-lord said, and Gimli shivered to hear a hard edge creep into the man’s voice.

"Smoking?" Aragorn echoed, glancing at Dashnir and Fastahn. "A harmless enough topic, I suppose. What has been the conclusion of your discussion?"

"We have not spoken long enough to have reached any sort of conclusion," Fastahn said. "The honored dwarf has been explaining the concept to us, but I fear we are still at something of a loss as to the appeal of burning pipe-weed, as he calls it."

Aragorn frowned and glanced at Eomer, but the king of Rohan was doing a remarkable job of not meeting Aragorn’s eyes. Gimli sighed and looked at Legolas, who was also watching the two with a mixture of frustration and anxiety. With lips pressed tightly together in concern, the elf eventually moved close to Gimli and placed a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"I think Faensul and I shall take our leave of you," he whispered, his voice so low that even Gimli could barely hear it. "My presence seems to be a disturbance to this conversation."

"Then I shall accompany you," Gimli murmured.

In response, the elf tightened his grip on the dwarf’s shoulder and bent over slightly. "You are involved in this conversation, my friend. You cannot so easily take your leave. Besides, I shall have Faensul to warn me if danger approaches, and I promise that I shall take no hasty actions."

Gimli looked as though he was about to argue, but Aragorn chose that moment to speak and he was unable to protest. "Well, Fastahn, let us see if Gimli and I can enlighten you and Dashnir. What information have you given them so far, Master Dwarf?"

Legolas was edging away and Gimli was helpless to stop him. Caught between the king of Gondor’s question and the prince of Mirkwood’s foolishness, Gimli nearly tore out his beard in frustration. But sensing some of this, Legolas gave the dwarf’s shoulder a final squeeze and spoke quietly once more. "Smoking seems an innocent enough subject, and he who we fear is with you. Only keep your eyes upon him and I shall be safe enough with Faensul. And I give you my word, Gimli, that I shall not let the darkness overtake me."

The elf was right, a fact that Gimli hated to admit. His presence was creating a rift between Eomer and Aragorn, and Dashnir was here as well. Legolas should be fine if he left, and with that stallion of his along to keep his mind occupied… With a sigh, Gimli nodded and turned his concentration back to the men, who were looking at him expectantly. Legolas let go of his shoulder and backed away. Gimli heard Faensul snort and knew the horse had been summoned to leave with the elf. It was out of his hands now, and the dwarf could only hope that Legolas knew what he was doing. _And while I am hoping for that, I think I shall hope for the evil of Sauron to be completely undone and for the lands of Númenor to be raised from the sea again. Am I daft? Of course Legolas knows not what he is doing!_ Still, there was nothing to be done about it and Gimli reluctantly let the elf go.

"I have only introduced our delegates to the topic of smoking," the dwarf said in answer to Aragorn’s question. "I am at a loss as to what they wish to know of the art."

"Is it an art?" Fastahn questioned.

"It may be construed as such," Aragorn answered with a slight smile. "Certainly the blowing of smoke rings might be taken for art." The king reached for a pouch hanging on his belt and drew out his own pipe, turning it over in his hands. "Perhaps a demonstration?"

"A demonstration would be much appreciated," Dashnir said, his voice relaxed and conversational. Some of Gimli’s fears began to abate and he studied the man closely. Was it possible that this was only a manifestation of idle curiosity? Did he simply seek conversation to pass the time while the horses recovered their strength?

"Gimli, have you flint and steel?"

Gimli scowled, feeling that Aragorn should know a dwarf would never be caught without flint and steel, but he said naught and quickly searched his own pack for the requested items. "Have you need of aught else?"

"Nay, the pipe-weed is dry and should light easily enough," Aragorn answered, quickly setting to work. It was not long before a small stream of smoke began to drift upward from the pipe, and Aragorn inhaled deeply, seeming to relax a bit as he did so. Opening his mouth, he blew a large smoke ring and then smiled. "If you so desire it, I have an extra pipe you may use if you wish to learn this art."

"I think I shall be content to watch," Fastahn said with a small smile of his own. "We have little fire in the desert and are somewhat wary of it. I should not like it to be so close to my own face."

"Most would agree with you," Eomer said, flicking a glance at Aragorn as he did so, but there was humor now instead of censure in his gaze.

__

Legolas was right to leave insofar as Eomer and Aragorn are concerned, Gimli thought. _I only hope he does not find trouble for himself._ "Eomer is among those not enlightened enough to enjoy this," Gimli said aloud. "And may I have my steel and flint back?" Now that Aragorn had started, he felt the need for a good smoke himself. He usually didn’t smoke around Legolas because he knew how much the elf loathed it, but now that the elf was elsewhere, Gimli saw no reason as to why he should not indulge in a bit of relaxation himself. After all, Legolas had given him great cause for stress and grief during the past few days.

"How did this inhalation of smoke come about?" Fastahn asked, waving at a smoke ring that drifted too close to him.

"Ah, that is a long story and one that has been debated by some. However, most will agree that smoking began with hobbits. A valiant hobbit by the name of Meriadoc Brandybuck is compiling a history on the subject, and it seems clear by the records he has found that hobbits were the first to smoke and the first to successfully grow pipe-weed." Aragorn shook his head and smiled slightly. "It is interesting to note that they call it an art among themselves."

"Hobbits…" Fastahn trailed off and shook his head. "I am afraid I am unfamiliar with these people. Are they of a separate northern kingdom?"

Gimli snorted as he drew slowly upon his own pipe. "The day that hobbits form a kingdom will be the day that elves begin mining. They live together as a community, but theirs is a primitive society. They are a simple people who live by simple rules."

"Perhaps you would know them better by the term halflings," Aragorn said.

Fastahn was silent for a moment as he searched his mind for that word. "Perhaps…" he eventually said. "We have some legends that were passed down to us, and in them there is mention of a halfling race. I recall them as a little people who appear and disappear at will, yet these are but by myths and fables from an older time. Or so we have thought."

"So many have thought," Aragorn said.

"What did Harad hear concerning the fall of Sauron?" Eomer asked curiously.

Fastahn’s face darkened for a moment and he shook his head. "We knew very little for quite some time, save that the servants of Mordor who watched many of the tribes were suddenly called away. It was as though a summons came to them, and they left to answer it but never returned. There was great upheaval in the desert because of this, for many of the warrior tribes were left leaderless. The Khurintu and Warra tribes were among these, and it was only after great turmoil and strife that Asbad and Joranen came to lead. After that, tales drifted down from the northern tribes, particular Portu, and we gradually learned much of what happened. We learned more from the emissaries sent by Gondor and Dol Amroth."

"Did you know aught of Isildur’s bane or the part played by the halflings?" Eomer pressed, his curiosity now getting the better of him.

"Of Isildur’s bane we heard a rumor," Fastahn answered. "But we know not what the word meant nor how it contributed to Sauron’s fall. But know that many of us were grateful that his influence had been taken from the desert. Too often it had drawn our young men away to war."

Gimli grunted and wondered what Dashnir’s response to that would be, but when he turned to look for the man, he was met with a shock. His body grew cold and his heart began to pound wildly. He had been charged with one task by his elven friend, and he had failed miserably.

"I know as well as any the costs of war," Aragorn was saying behind him. "But this is an ill time to speak of such things, and we have lingered long enough. Come. We must be on our way again. Where is Legolas, Gimli?"

Gimli turned to face the king, his hands clutching the haft of his axe so tightly he felt he might break it. "A good question, that. But I have a better one. Where is Dashnir?"

* * * *

__

There is beauty here, though one must search for it, Legolas decided, watching as the waning moon rose into the sky and cast its silver glow over the silent sand. _If there was a bit more life, this desert might even be considered somewhat pleasant._ He tipped his head into the face of a breeze that rippled up from the south and sighed, wishing to listen to the melody of the wind and the tidings it might bring. He longed for even a single tree that could hear his voice and respond in kind, whispering of green grass and mountains. Never had he felt so constrained or so limited. The world was a silent wasteland bathed in silver and senses were limited to the objective and the concrete. If this was what it meant to be mortal, he wondered how Arwen could have accepted such a life. Love was a powerful emotion, yes, but to willingly part with an elf’s unique connection to the song of life…that was indeed a great sacrifice and Legolas wondered if Aragorn understood just how much Arwen had given up.

With a shake of his head, Legolas hearkened back to the promise he’d made to Gimli earlier. He could not let the shadow overtake him so easily, but without the dwarf’s presence, it seemed impossible to keep his focus. Something about Gimli anchored the elf, and though he would never openly admit it, Legolas was of the guarded opinion that without the dwarf he might have crossed the border into insanity shortly after falling beneath _ú-glîr_. As it was, he was barely holding his own, and it seemed he fought a losing battle. _How does Arwen manage?_ he demanded. _How is it that she endures?_ Legolas attempted to find something to explain the fact that Elrond’s daughter was coping remarkably well with a mortal existence, but the answers he found gave him no clues for his own fight. Arwen was not a full elf and as such her connection to Ilúvatar’s song had been slightly weaker. She was also not completely blocked as Legolas was, and she had her love for Aragorn to strengthen her. Of her advantages, Legolas could only claim an unbreakable friendship with Gimli, and it seemed that this would no longer be enough.

__

Nor is it now even enough to hold me to a promise, the elf sighed. His mind was wandering again, dwelling on darkness rather than light, and he was once more falling into shadow. Looking about for something else on which to focus, his eyes finally came to rest on Faensul, who was now frolicking about with all the enthusiasm and playfulness of a colt. Their halt had initially been called for the sake of the horses, but the elven stallion apparently considered this a poor reason to stop. He was taking no care to preserve his energy and was racing across the desert, stopping abruptly to see the sand fly up around him. He would then dig about in it, snort, and eventually race off again, occasionally spinning fast circles and racing through the cloud of dust that churned up in his wake. Legolas wondered if he should call the horse back but decided instead to trust in the steed’s wisdom. Faensul knew his limits and would not overexert himself. In any case, Haradhur was not far away now and the pace they set was an easy one. Even the horses of Gondor were having no difficulty with this night’s journey.

"Does he ever tire, honored one?"

The elf froze, certain he had been quite alone, and swiftly began running through the list of beings capable of approaching him from behind without his knowledge. Several talented scouts in the service of his father came to mind as well as a few warriors from Lothlórien and Rivendell, but other than elves, Legolas could think of no one with the ability to take him by surprise in this barren stretch of Arda. His senses might now be limited, but he was growing more alert to compensate for this handicap. It should not have been possible for anyone in the company to catch him so unaware.

"Prince Legolas?"

Turning slowly with narrowed, suspicious eyes, Legolas found himself confronting Dashnir. To the eyes of even a diminished elf, the man appeared a little too innocent and a little too curious. The prince might have discerned more had he the full use of his elven senses, but he did not and so had to rely on reasoning and intuition rather than known facts. "Faensul was bred by the Eldar and born of a proud lineage," Legolas answered quietly, continuing to study the delegate from the Khurintu tribe and wondering if Aragorn could teach him how to analyze another individual as a man might. "As such, he is among the greatest horses known to Middle Earth."

Dashnir nodded as though this satisfied his curiosity and continued to watch Faensul. "He is a beautiful animal. I have never seen his like unless it be in Eomer’s stallion, Shade. Our own mounts pale in comparison to such spirit and pride."

The elf said nothing, for no answer or response had been specifically requested of him. It was a trick he’d watched his father employ with some success when dealing with the Beorings and the men of Lake-town. Until directly questioned by another, the superior in a dialogue was under no obligation to make any comment. A lesser mind might prattle on for minutes before realizing that the conversation’s other participant had said nothing. Once that realization came about, it created a sense of embarrassment and chagrin that a talented mind could easily exploit and manipulate. Legolas did not hold with many of his father’s political views and theories, but as a dutiful son occasionally constrained to sit through long hours of court, he had watched and learned. Distasteful as this was, upon reflection, the prince had come to realize that he could employ most of his father’s tactics for reasons other than those of coercion. He did so now.

"Would that all our horses had such speed and stamina," Dashnir continued when Legolas remained silent. "We could race from one hidden lake to another without conserving our strength or our water." He glanced at the elf, inviting him to comment, but Legolas still said nothing, opting instead to favor the man with a scrutinizing look laced with suspicion. Dashnir studied him for a brief moment much as the prince was currently studying him and then smiled. Legolas suddenly had a rather disconcerting feeling that the man knew exactly what the elf was doing, and this feeling was strengthened by the fact that Dashnir included a question in his next comment. "Rumors and myths among my people claim that elves have exceptional sight. Can you see our next destination?"

Legolas had never felt more like attacking someone than he did just then. Even the spiders of Mirkwood and the Orcs of Sauron had failed to rouse such anger in the elf. But he could never justify an outright attack for what might possibly be construed as an innocent question— _though if that was an innocent question then I am a dwarf!_ —and so he struggled to control and contain his growing rage while keeping his face innocently blank. "I am uncertain as to the direction," the elf eventually answered, turning his gaze away from Dashnir and back into the desert. "I know not if what I see is Haradhur."

"Then allow me to aid you." The man stepped forward and pointed almost due south, his expression bland and his voice conversational. "Our path lies that way. Can you see the structures of the city now?"

Once again, Legolas was overcome by an overwhelming desire to strike Dashnir. Analyzing this feeling, he decided it probably came from long association with Gimli, for the dwarf would sooner resort to physical violence than to a war of words. However, the elf was still rather surprised with himself. He hadn’t felt this upset in quite a while and he was not entirely convinced that the fault lay solely with Gimli. Even the dwarf might pause at an outright attack on the delegate from Khurintu. _No, not_ might _. He_ did _pause before attacking, for he woke me to discuss his anger and his feelings two days ago. In this, Gimli has proven himself more capable of dealing with rage than I!_ Legolas shook his head slightly, attempting to get his thoughts back on track, and adopted a cool, uncaring expression. "I see many things," he said with as much control as he could muster. "Which of these might be Haradhur, though, is not within my knowledge."

"Ah." Dashnir did not appear to be fooled. He turned his head to the desert and then stepped back toward the elf, placing a casual hand on Legolas’s shoulder. "Then perhaps you should look harder."

Suddenly uneasy with the man’s touch, Legolas moved as though to shrug it off, but Dashnir’s grip tightened suddenly and painfully. The elf felt a jolt of something race through his frame, and then it was as though the world dropped from a veil of shadow into a realm of light. His mind reeled with sensory overload as a burst of song echoed in his ears and the desert suddenly focused into vibrant, acute detail. At the same time, he felt something pulled violently from his mind as though the bandages of a scabbing wound had been ripped away. He felt himself falling and the world that had suddenly become so bright and vivid fell back into a deep shadow. And into that shadow fell also the elf, scrambling for a hold that would slow his descent but unable to find any purchase on the cloud of darkness that overwhelmed him.

By the time he hit the ground, Legolas was unconscious.


	18. Flitting Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"Legolas?"

"Gently now, he is coming around."

"Will he remember what happened, do you think?"

Faint at first but steadily growing in clarity, voices from the outside world gradually trickled into Legolas’s semiconscious mind. Comprehension was long in coming, or so it felt, but he eventually began to realize that something had happened to him and that he was now slowly waking up. Experimentally, he tried to open his eyes. The attempt was unsuccessful, but he thought he managed to make his lids flutter. That was progress of sorts. He next attempted to move a hand or an arm, but this proved to be a far more difficult task. His limbs felt leaden and his head throbbed as though it had been hit against something. What had happened?

"You said he was coming around."

"Hush, Gimli, he is. Watch."

"Let us hope there are no lasting or impeding injuries to speak of. If there are, proof or no proof, someone shall soon feel my sword."

__

Gimli, Aragorn, and Eomer, Legolas identified, his mind beginning to clear somewhat. His senses were starting to right themselves and he now felt the cold sand beneath him as well as the quiet southern breeze that whispered over his still frame. The wind spoke of hidden lakes and burning heat as well as jungles of green far away beyond even the sight of an elf…

Legolas’s mind froze as he suddenly realized what was happening. He was listening to the wind. It was speaking words, and he heard and understood them. And more than that, he now seemed to have an awareness about him that had been lacking earlier. His head was pillowed on someone’s lap and he recognized that someone as Gimli. The callused hand that strayed over his brow was one indication, but there was also a sense of ageless stone and deep earth that could only come from the dwarf. Moving on, Aragorn was kneeling at his right side, for he could sense the latent power of Númenor and the sadness of the Eldar emanating from the man. And finally, feeling of open fields and racing winds, Eomer was standing slightly behind Aragorn. Legolas could sense them. He could sense them all. And there could be only one explanation for this—Ilúvatar’s song had returned to him!

Struggling now to open his eyes so that he could look upon the stars and see them for what they truly were, Legolas began to shift and groan. This seemed to alarm his companions, for he felt Gimli press upon his shoulders while Aragorn captured his wrists and held them fast against his sides. But the elf ignored this, for he was free again. He was free from the shadow and its influence! Physical restraints were as nothing when compared to the liberty of the spirit that Legolas now felt. Flinging his senses wide, he sang back to the wind and listened as the song of the desert, faint thought it might be, slowly found its way into the night.

"Easy, my friend, you are safe! Legolas!"

Gimli’s concerned voice somehow made it through the elf’s elation and he slowed his struggles to rise, realizing that he still had yet to open his eyes and that his movements were unnerving his friends. It was difficult to reign in his excitement and enthusiasm, but somehow or another, the elf managed it. He felt his body go still, and the hands upon his shoulders and wrists relaxed slightly. Tendrils of pain flickered at the elf as he was slowly released, and he wondered just how tightly he’d been restrained. Deciding to adopt a slower pace in order to spare his companions any further alarm, Legolas took a deep breath and tried once more to open his eyes.

This time, the attempt was successful, and bright gray eyes opened to a world that was fresh and crisp, with every detail finely cut and every color a vibrant hue. The stars danced as though rejoicing with Legolas, and he could see their fire blaze forth through the blackness as they sang of hope and peace. Wisps of cloud partially obscured the waning moon, and the elf nearly laughed aloud for joy as he traced their contours, measured their depths, and watched the moon’s light filter through as sunlight might ripple through a wave of water. Even the desert sand, with its countless grains, became alive for Legolas, and he allowed his eyes to sweep over the vast plain, taking in the details that had been so cruelly denied by the dark shadows of _ú-glîr_.

"Legolas?"

A shadow moved before him, hiding the wonders of the desert, and Legolas realized with some reluctance that it was time to stop basking in the glow of his restored senses. With a slight shake of his head, and a groan for the headache this produced, he blinked and focused his eyes on the face hovering just above his own.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked again, worry etched in his brow.

"I am awake, my friend," Legolas said, wincing at the weakness in his voice. He cleared his throat and began to struggle up. Hands braced him from behind, and Legolas reluctantly swallowed his pride, allowing himself to be aided.

"You seem to be making a habit of this," Gimli grunted as he steadied the elf. "Is the unconscious world so much better than this one, or can you simply no longer keep your balance?"

"Legolas, do you remember what happened?" Aragorn asked ere the elf could respond to Gimli.

With a dark glare at the dwarf, Legolas shook off Gimli’s hands and rubbed his head. "I believe I do," he said, collecting fragments of memory. "I was watching Faensul when Dashnir found us and began to speak." The elf stopped and looked around, his eyes searching for the delegate from Khurintu. "Are we alone?"

"Imhran and Arhelm have issued orders that some of the packs on the baggage horses need to be adjusted," Aragorn said. "We have a few moments ere the Haradrim come seeking us."

"You say Dashnir found you?" Eomer pressed, squatting next to Aragorn. "Is this his doing, then?"

"It could be no other," Gimli growled, straightening and laying a hand to the haft of his axe.

"Peace," Aragorn ordered firmly, fixing both Eomer and Gimli with a hard stare. "We have yet to learn all the details of this, and I would hear more of Legolas’s story ere deciding upon a course of action." The king turned his eyes back to Legolas and nodded, prompting the elf to continue.

"As I was saying," Legolas said, "Dashnir found me and we spoke somewhat concerning Faensul." He stopped once more and his sharp eyes searched the area. "Where is Faensul?"

"He would not allow us to examine you, so I sent him back to main group with Shade," Eomer answered. "He was less than happy to go, but Aragorn spoke to him in Sindarin and he eventually left."

"That is well, then," Legolas said. "I would not have him harmed or lost."

"Your concern for that beast is admirable, but you should have more concern for your friends," Gimli growled. "We are waiting for you to finish your story, Master Elf, and you can think only of your horse."

"My apologies, Gimli," Legolas said. "Unfortunately, you are so—"

"Legolas!" Aragorn interrupted sharply ere the verbal warfare could begin. "Legolas, would you kindly tell us what happened?"

Trying to ignore Gimli’s triumphant smirk, the elf sighed and took up the tale again. "Dashnir and I spoke of Faensul, and then he questioned me concerning elven sight." Legolas stopped and glanced at Gimli, hearing a sharp intake of breath from the dwarf’s direction, but Gimli said naught. With a slight shrug, Legolas continued. "I evaded his questions for a time, but then he laid his hand on my shoulder and…and after that I have no memory."

"What was his purpose, do you think?" Aragorn asked, watching Legolas carefully.

"I believe his purpose was to remove _ú-glîr_ ," Legolas answered quietly, a slow smile appearing on his face as he watched his friends. "And in this he was successful." Legolas waited expectantly for a reaction, stiffened, and then suddenly turned and glared at Gimli. "Yes, my hearing has returned, and I will thank you not to call me that."

"Merely a test," the dwarf answered, but a broad smile to match the elf’s was spreading across his face.

"Your senses have returned?" Aragorn asked.

"They have, my liege," Legolas sighed, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as he listened to the surrounding world. "And I find I am more grateful than ever for the gifts that Ilúvatar bestowed upon the Eldar."

"Then there is nothing preventing us from confronting and killing a certain delegate!" Eomer declared, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Legolas’s senses have been returned, and we no longer need Dashnir."

"Eomer, wait!" Aragorn called out even as the king of Rohan began to turn away. "Eomer, Dashnir is not the master of his game but rather one of the pieces being moved by another mind. He is a powerful piece, true, but he is not the strategist."

"And why should that affect my decision to destroy him?" the horse-lord demanded.

"Aside from several political problems that would result from his demise, we would lose our only contact with the head of our adversary," Aragorn reasoned. "At the present time, Dashnir’s actions give us a link to the greater evil that awaits us. It is much like allowing a lesser criminal to escape so that he might be followed to the lair. If we wait for Dashnir to play out his hand, or rather the hand of his master, we may take them all at once. Or at the very least, we might be better prepared for whatever purposes they have planned for us."

"I am not convinced that Dashnir has a master," Gimli growled, stroking the sharp blade of his axe. "He seems perfectly capable of acting on his own."

"And well he should be, for he is second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe. Is not Faramir my second, and is he not also capable of acting on his own? A leader would be ill advised to choose a subcommander incapable of carrying out independent actions. But of this I am certain—Dashnir does not work alone, and there is a greater power that directs him. If this is not so and I am wrong, then Dashnir is a fool and we have naught to fear from him."

"I agree with Aragorn," Legolas said, getting to his feet and swaying slightly. Gimli moved to brace him, but the elf irritably waved him away. "Dashnir cannot be the head of the darkness, or he would not have come with the delegation. Rather, he would have sent another in his place and watched through distant eyes. The head cannot afford to be caught in the teeth of its prey, but the tail is expendable."

"Then if Dashnir is expendable, there is nothing to lose by ridding ourselves of him," Eomer pressed.

"Nor is there anything to gain," Aragorn countered. "Dashnir is a threat, I agree with you on that. But he is a lesser threat, and I wish to watch him further. His actions could tell us something of his ultimate goal. The fact that he freed Legolas from _ú-glîr_ says much, and this must be analyzed along with other factors. Dashnir’s next deed might reveal even more of his plans."

"Or it might spell our destruction," Gimli argued. "He has already acted against one of us, and there was also Eomer’s disappearance two nights ago. He may well have been involved in that. And there is this to consider—why should he release Legolas from _ú-glîr_? It appears to be a reprieve for us, and in this I grow suspicious. What does he plan to gain from this? Shall we allow him to get any closer to us, or shall we prevent him while we have a chance?"

"Peace, my friend," Legolas soothed, turning his eyes into the desert and sighing as elven sight revealed to him the distant rocks of the Sihal, a few companies of wandering horsemen far beyond mortal sight, and the towering structures of a city that could only be Haradhur. "The danger has passed for now, and we may learn much from it. And as for preventing Dashnir, there are ways to do so without killing the man. As Aragorn has already revealed to us, we may learn the plans of his master should we correctly decipher his actions and the reasons for them."

"Perhaps," Gimli allowed grudgingly, "but I do not trust him."

"Nor do I," Eomer added, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

"Who among us does?" Aragorn asked. "But this is not a matter of trust. Rather, it is a matter of motivation and goals. We have yet to learn of the plans that have been set, and should we destroy our only link to those plans, we give ourselves a severe disadvantage. And as for your concerns Gimli, I agree. Dashnir did not lift the shadow from Legolas on a whim. Something darker is planned, but should we destroy him now, we will never learn what."

"My liege!"

The four of them turned and Legolas’s quick eyes made out Imhran riding toward them. He smiled with quiet satisfaction while he waited for the man to draw within range of the others. "The call is for you, Aragorn," he said.

Aragorn laughed softly and clapped Legolas on the shoulder. "It is good to you have you whole again, my friend. Who is it?"

"Imhran," Eomer answered for the elf as the rider drew close enough to be recognized.

"The rest of the company has begun riding toward us," Legolas added. "I suspect he came in advance to warn us of their approach."

"I would also suspect as much," Aragorn said. "Then we are all agreed? We watch Dashnir, but we take no actions to relieve him of his head." This last was said with a hard look at Gimli.

The dwarf sighed and nodded reluctantly. "If that is the way you have decreed it, then that is the way it shall be. But I will also be watching you, Legolas." Gimli gave his friend a stern glower. "Trouble follows you as it follows a hobbit, and if you would survive this journey, then you must stay close to me."

Legolas snorted and was searching for a suitable reply to that, but Imhran’s arrival prevented it. "My liege, the company approaches," Imhran reported, pulling his horse to a stop.

"My thanks," Aragorn said with a nod. "We are prepared, and it is time to finish the journey to Haradhur."

"And Valar willing, we will live to tell of this journey," Eomer murmured. His voice was too low for the others to hear, but Legolas heard and he shivered. A sense of foreboding suddenly came upon him, and he studied Haradhur in the far distant. It seemed as though a dark haze fell over the city, a dark haze that was far too like the inky blackness of the elf’s recent nightmares.

"Legolas?" Gimli wondered quietly, his hand moving to the elf’s arm should Legolas need to be braced. "My friend, are you well?"

"Yes," the elf whispered, blinking his eyes and shaking his head. The haze abruptly vanished and all was as it should be. He took a deep breath and steadied himself before glancing at the dwarf and mustering a smile of sorts. And why should he not smile? For he was complete once more. His senses had been returned! "I am fine," Legolas assured Gimli, feeling his spirits begin to rise. "Let us depart. We have lingered here far too long."

* * * *

"Honored one, we can go no further this night. Should we venture into the desert, the sun would catch us ere we could find water, and we would be hard-pressed to recover from such a trial quickly enough to journey tomorrow evening."

Imrahil sighed and gazed across the sand that stretched along the dark horizon. The sun was not more than an hour or so away from rising, and though the prince of Dol Amroth did not know the desert as well as did Aragorn, he had ventured into it often enough to know that tempting its wrath was something only for the foolish. Giving in to the inevitable and squelching the protests of his heart, he checked his horse and brought it to a halt. "You are right, Mohart, though my heart bids me press onward. There is something dark in this land that no light of the sun can banish. I fear for Gondor and Rohan."

"And I fear for the tribes of the desert, but we can do no more than what we are doing," Mohart said, lowering the desert scarves from his face and gazing at the sand with the longing of one who desires to return home. They were now a mile south of Anduin, having used the crossings at Pelargir with no mishap. As Imrahil had planned, ten men had been sent north to warn Faramir and Arwen in Minas Tirith and thirty men now waited behind him, the remainder having been left at Pelargir should trouble come out of the desert and seek to cross Anduin. They would act as scouts, runners, and soldiers according to the need. Imrahil could only hope it would be enough, and that he himself might not be too late.

"We stop here," the prince announced, turning to his men who had stopped behind their lord. "Dismount and make preparations for camp."

Murmurs of acknowledgement swept through the company and then horses were turned as riding formation was broken. Confident that his orders would be followed and that his supervision would be unnecessary, Imrahil turned his eyes back to the desert. Every time he looked upon the endless stretch of sand, it never failed to leave him with a sense of awe. There was no sign of life for as far as his keen eyes could penetrate, and he wondered how men had ever come to choose Harad’s burning sand as a place to settle. The elven blood within him clamored for life and the sea, but here was a place with neither. He felt a pang of sympathy for Legolas and wondered how the elf fared.

"If we maintain our pace, we shall reach Lake Supt tomorrow night in good time, possibly several hours before sunrise, but we will not be able to press further," Mohart said. "We must keep to the trails and the time of the desert, else we shall not live to reach Haradhur."

"What are Dashnir’s options once King Elessar and King Eomer arrive at the Gathering?" Imrahil asked. "If naught befell them, they would have reached the city yesterday morning."

"If the Khurintu tribe seeks to move for power, whatever they do must needs be unexpected, that much is certain." Mohart fell silent for a moment, considering the possibilities. "In truth, I know not what they have planned," he eventually said. "I doubt I could even begin to fathom the minds of Asbad and Dashnir. However they plan their attack, though, Gondor and Rohan shall bear the worst of it. Your kingdoms in the north are hated and feared in Harad, but they are also respected for their power and might. If Khurintu can rise above Gondor and Rohan both in such a way that its victory would be unchallenged and unquestioned, Khurintu could easily take control of the desert. After that, it is only a matter of time before Harad becomes a power that might rival the lost strength of Mordor."

"And with the blood of Númenor to back Asbad and Dashnir, they shall be a formidable force indeed," Imrahil sighed.

"It may be, honored one, that perhaps the storm has already broken, and we will arrive only in time to witness the fall of Gondor," Mohart warned, his dark eyes glancing toward the prince.

"Perhaps, but I think not," Imrahil answered. "My heart feels that the time is not yet past for action, and we may yet arrive ere naught can be done, though I would we could travel with greater speed. Still, some things are beyond my control, and I will not contest the restraints placed upon me. It is enough that I may ride after my king."

"Your king is fortunate to command such loyalty from you, honored one," Mohart remarked.

"I am fortunate to be able to give him that loyalty," Imrahil answered. "And I pray that such loyalty will lead me to his side when darkness presses close." The prince fell silent for a moment, his eyes searching the desert. "Tomorrow night we travel to Lake Supt, correct?"

"Correct," Mohart said. "Then Lake Miyarr and finally Lake Nurnein. After that, we ride to Haradhur itself, where the Gathering will begin tonight at sunset."

"Four days," Imrahil murmured. "It is four days too long, and I grudge even the necessary time spent here. Still, there is nothing to be done about it. Come, Mohart. Let us aid the others in preparations so that we may retire early before the heat drives thoughts of sleep from our minds."

* * * *

Peering around Legolas’s slender frame, Gimli could not hold back a low whistle of appreciation. Nor was he the only member of the company to be awestruck by the sight before them. Murmurs arose from Gondorrim and Rohirrim alike, and Eomer checked Shade’s pace so that he might gaze further upon the towering walls that rose like teeth from the desert. Made from clay baked in the desert’s heat and reinforced with wooden beams for additional support, the walls of Haradhur stood tall as a warning to any who might attack one of the few permanent settlements in Harad. Upon the ramparts, soldiers marched, armed with crossbow and spear. Gates of iron lay open as if in invitation to passing travelers, but the guards who waited beside these gates were heavily armed and shielded.

"Behold Haradhur," Fastahn said, slowing his horse so that he rode beside Faensul. "There are few permanent structures in Harad, but what few we have are impressive even to northern eyes."

"Who controls this place?" Legolas asked, and Gimli felt a tremor of relief as he watched the elf scour the building with elven sight. It was very reassuring to the dwarf that Legolas had regained the use of his senses, for if any hidden archers tracked their movements, Legolas would know it.

"None have ever truly controlled it," Fastahn said. "It is a stopping place for many caravans, and there is a large underground well that supplies adequate water to meet our needs. For a time, the Gartabo tribe held power here, but it was contested by both Khurintu and Warra. It now lies as simply a place of rest for travelers or as a meeting place for special councils. The Gathering is an example of one of these. For occasions such as this, Haradhur serves as neutral ground, or as neutral as anything can be in this land."

"And in some years, Haradhur is more neutral than other years," a low voice to the side remarked. Gimli glanced over and his eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Arabano from the Lotessa tribe. The dwarf trusted none of the Haradrim, but there were some he trusted more than he trusted others. Fastahn seemed harmless enough to the cause of Gondor, though he was clearly capable of shrewd political moves should the need arise. Arabano, on the other hand, reminded Gimli very much of Dashnir. It was hard to say, actually, because the man had been so quiet during the journey, content to make discreet observations from a distance. But of late, he had occasionally volunteered his own words in a conversation, and Gimli was suspicious as to his motives.

"What mean you by this, Arabano?" Legolas asked, flicking a sharp glance at the man.

"A Gathering can become many things regardless of its initial purposes, honored one," Arabano answered. "Sometimes it becomes a meeting for settling matters of trade. Sometimes it becomes a meeting for settling matters of internal disputes and control over water resources. And sometimes, it becomes a meeting for displaying power and ability. At these times, Haradhur has little to offer in the way of neutrality and is instead a breeding ground for dissension and war. One is forced to choose allies during such times, and such decisions must be made in haste with very little information for both sides." Arabano studied elf and dwarf for a minute with depthless eyes that glittered in the dark night. "I believe you know of what I speak."

"Indeed we do," Legolas said, his voice soft but tempered with steel. "And I thank you for your words. Perhaps we may speak further upon this."

"At your leisure, honored ones." And with that, Arabano nodded and drew his horse away, preventing further conversation.

Gimli blinked, feeling that he had just missed something. Fastahn had spurred his horse forward to speak with Aragorn, and for the moment, he and Legolas were more or less free to speak privately without fear of listening ears. "What did he say to you?" the dwarf asked the elf after swallowing a good deal of pride.

"A warning and the tentative offer of an uneasy alliance, if I interpret his words correctly," Legolas murmured quietly. "I am not as familiar with the games of words in the desert, and we should confer with Aragorn. However, I believe I have learned enough through listening to Dashnir and Fastahn to hazard a guess at this."

"I heard no warning, and I certainly heard no discussion of a possible alliance," Gimli argued.

"It was not a possible alliance, but rather an offer that held no real political backing. He has not the authority, I think, to speak for the Lotessa tribe in this. Not complete authority, in any case. But the warning was there as was the offer to pursue an alliance should we desire it. You did not hear it because you are a dwarf."

Gimli frowned. "I did not hear it because I am a dwarf?" he echoed, his voice challenging the elf to back that statement with some kind of logical reasoning.

"Dwarves and elves are different, my friend. Above all else, the two of us should know that. Your version of diplomacy involves the axe, while elven diplomacy takes the form of words. Having served in my father’s kingdom, I am familiar with the games and intrigue associated with court. One must sift words spoken by delegates, for rarely do they say what they truly mean."

"The world would be much simpler if it were administered by dwarves," Gimli growled, deciding that between men and elves there were more than enough empty words and discussions to go around.

"If the world were administered by dwarves, I fear there would be none here to enjoy it. The very foundations of Arda would have given way because of the endless tunneling."

"We are not moles," Gimli protested indignantly.

"You have fooled many, then."

The dwarf sighed and shook his head. He should have been prepared to banter words with the elf, but a strange feeling of unease was troubling him. It was enough of a distraction that Gimli could not quite keep up with Legolas, who was clearly enjoying the return of his senses and had been in high spirits since his recovery. And while Gimli rejoiced with his friend, he couldn’t help but wonder at Dashnir’s motives. Aragorn also seemed suspicious, but Legolas was apparently too relieved to consider such things.

"Gimli?"

The dwarf blinked and glanced up to find Legolas watching him curiously over his shoulder. "My apologies. Were you speaking?"

"Nay, but neither were you. It is unlike you to leave a claim such as I put forth uncontested. Are you ill?"

"Nay," Gimli murmured, turning his eyes to Haradhur. The horses were being pulled to a stop and Dashnir was speaking quietly with the guards at the gate. "Nay, perhaps I am merely wary."

"Wary?" Legolas raised his brow. "I sense nothing."

"That is part of what worries me," Gimli said, "for I do sense something. It may be nothing more than general ill will, but it has been growing as we have approached this place and I fear what that might mean."

"Honored ones!"

Gimli and Legolas looked up together as Dashnir rode back to address their group. The dwarf tightened one hand around the haft of his axe while his other hand braced itself on Faensul’s back, prepared to leap from the horse should the need arise to battle. Sensing the sudden tensing of his companion, Legolas sent Gimli a stern warning look, but the dwarf pointedly ignored him, keeping his eyes upon Dashnir and watching the man’s moves as a cat would watch potential prey.

"Honored ones, I have spoken with the gate guards and a place has been reserved for the forces of Gondor and Rohan within Haradhur itself," Dashnir said. "All other tribes have arrived, but since you were forced to travel further than others, a site was specifically set apart for you. You are to be stationed within the city near the south gate. Does this suit you, honored ones?"

Gimli flicked his eyes toward Aragorn and watched as surprise flitted across the king’s face. "Indeed, this honor is greatly appreciated," Aragorn said with a nod. "And I thank you for your services Dashnir. All of you have the gratitude of Gondor and Rohan in providing us escort through the desert."

"You are as knowledgeable as many and such escort was probably unnecessary," Fastahn said with a laugh. "Shall we accompany you to your camp?"

"I think I know the site of which you speak," Aragorn answered. "Your services are no longer required, though I hope that we might meet again sometime during the Gathering."

"Though some of you will meet my axe ere you meet me," Gimli muttered. Legolas sent him yet another look of warning and this time the dwarf grunted in acknowledgement of the message. He would take no rash actions now, but something was brewing in this supposedly neutral ground and there would be snow upon Mount Doom ere Gimli, son of Glóin, was taken unawares.

Aragorn was now giving the orders to move forward, and Legolas spoke softly to Faensul, directing him to follow the group. "I thank you for your concern," the elf said quietly, glancing back at the dwarf. "But I wonder if you are not jumping at shadows. I sense no darkness here other than what men carry in their hearts, and of that I sense no more than is customary."

"Are you directing your senses beyond the city or do you concentrate only on that which is within Haradhur’s walls?" Gimli asked as they passed beyond the iron gates and began winding through streets lined with merchants seeking to sell their wares. As the forces of Gondor and Rohan passed, a hush feel upon the people and there were more than a few whispered words and pointing fingers.

"I have concentrated primarily on Haradhur itself," Legolas answered. "For that is where we are to stay, and it is while we slumber that the danger will be greatest."

"Dashnir did not follow us into the city," Gimli said. "I believe the Khurintu tribe is camped beyond the walls."

"As are many tribes," Legolas pointed out. "And outside the city, they can do little to harm us. We are protected by these walls, and as you can see from the streets, there are more than enough areas in which we might take shelter should the need arise. I think you overestimate the danger, Gimli."

"And I think you grow overconfident with the return of your senses," Gimli said. "But let us speak of other things," he continued ere the elf could protest. "We will reach no conclusions here and dawn approaches. Our concentration will be needed elsewhere."

"I do not seek to challenge your senses," Legolas said after a moment of silence. "And I will heed your warnings, but I feel as though the danger is not yet come. And beyond that, we are together. Who in the desert would think to come against an elf and a dwarf when both are prepared?"

"I pray that you are right, Legolas, and that I am wrong," Gimli sighed. "For to my mind, the darkness is deeper now than it has ever been."


	19. Desert Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"You released the elf from _ma’awnwa_?"

"It seemed far more dangerous to leave him shrouded than to arrange for a temporary reprieve, honored one," Dashnir answered.

"Explain."

"The role of the dwarf was unanticipated and ultimately detrimental. The elf learned too quickly to compensate for limited senses and abilities. Garat’s death is proof enough of that. Though severely lacking in other areas, Garat was a warrior to be feared in combat, and for the elf to come away from a battle to the death with naught but a knock on the head to show for it…he adapted because of pressure from the dwarf. The adaptations had to stop. Moreover, _ma’awnwa_ was beginning to spread its influence to other members of the party. King Elessar was becoming hesitant, King Eomer was becoming brash, my own mind was filled with uncertainties, and Garat went out of his way to attack the elf."

"You are certain Garat was shadowed and not merely acting on the whims of his heart?"

"Even had he been acting on a whim, he would have chosen a better place and a better time to attack the elf. He was too smart to do what he did, leaving me to believe that he had been affected. And after Garat’s death, there was no way of predicting who might lose control next. I believe it was only a matter of time before King Eomer chose to strike. He had already confronted Garat once, though I suspect it was my own neck that he sought."

"And so you released the elf from _ma’awnwa_." Asbad, tribal head of Khurintu, sighed and tipped his head back, studying the ceiling of the tent and running through the possible consequences of this chain of events.

"Understand that I would have consulted with you, honored one, but there was little time and the shadow had already caused one death and several complications."

"Nay, think not that I censure you, Dashnir," Asbad said, shaking his head in dismissal of the issue. "Under the circumstances, I suspect I would have done likewise. We are dealing with beings passed down to us from myths and legends. Their ways are not our ways, and it will take time to truly understand them. Your recommendation for a change in plans was timely and prudent. Still, the fact that the elf’s senses have been returned to him does complicate matters."

"But initially, should he not be disregarding feelings of unease or foreboding because of the euphoria that accompanies the lifting of _ma’awnwa_? Overconfidence is a normal side-effect, and I saw traces of it in the elf as we rode toward Haradhur."

"Initially, yes, he will be overconfident, but that will disappear by the middle of the night, possibly earlier. It will not last long enough for our purposes. And plans cannot be moved forward unless we wish to risk two days in the desert instead of one while we await the rendezvous."

"It would be possible."

"It would also be foolish. Risks must be taken, that is true, but unnecessary risks should be avoided."

"Would that we had learned the other ways of blocking Eru’s song," Dashnir sighed. "Lord Sauron’s fall was unanticipated, and much of our people’s knowledge was lost with the destruction of our greatest captains."

"Yearn not for what cannot be," Asbad said sharply. "We have used what skills were gifted to us, and our training does not suffer for want of Mordor’s guidance. If anything, the fall of Lord Sauron gives us more opportunities than ever before. Where that realm failed, ours shall succeed. But we must maintain our focus. To be drawn away by the impossible shall prove our undoing."

Dashnir’s mouth tightened slightly but he nodded and Asbad turned his attention away from his second-in-command and back to the problem now facing them. Their plan should still work if all the pieces came together, but the loss of Garat cost them the rebellious faction of the Warra tribe. Unless things could be arranged quickly, Khurintu would not be able to rely on Warra for support in the final attack and would be forced to stand alone. And if this happened, then the forces of Gondor and Rohan would have to be sufficiently weakened and divided so that Khurintu’s gamble did not become an ignominious defeat. This was where Dashnir’s idea, inspired by the loyalty he had seen beside Lake Supt, came into play. Yet problems still plagued them, and elven senses were among the most prominent difficulties they faced.

"Tell me again what you learned of the Rohirrim," Asbad said eventually, glancing back at his subordinate.

"They are impetuous and bold, almost to a fault," Dashnir answered, his eyes going vacant for a moment as he thought back over his journey. "Their leader harbors private insecurities that the sundering of Eru’s song brought to the forefront. King Eomer secretly believes himself to be looked down upon, and he loathes assumed authority over his riders. Nevertheless, he does harbor a deep respect for King Elessar and he will follow his guidance up to a point. In times of crisis, the bond between Gondor and Rohan seems to be forged anew, no matter what differences come between the two kings. But once the crisis has passed, conflicts of opinion tend to unravel their alliance. Still, they are not easily divided."

"You also mentioned that the Rohirrim seemed especially anxious when your company was forced to take refuge from the sandstorm in the Sihal," Asbad said, his black eyes fixing themselves upon Dashnir.

"That is true, honored one. The elf, also, seemed uneasy with this turn of events. I do not think they like to be confined, which assumption would be backed by the environment and the lands in which they live. Spies report that Rohan is a land of open plains and rolling hills, with mountains to be found only on the borders of the land."

"Think you that they shall feel uncomfortable confined to Haradhur?" Asbad questioned.

"Perhaps," Dashnir said. "Yet they showed few signs of discomfort in Dol Amroth, and in that place they were sequestered in Prince Imrahil’s fortress."

Asbad nodded, processing this information and integrating it with what was already known. "The Warra contingent guarding the hidden lake from the Portu tribe, do they know yet of Garat’s death? They were part of the secret faction beneath his command."

"I have sent no messages to them. The Warra tribe here in Haradhur might have informed them now that they know of Garat’s fall, but I think that unlikely. I doubt Joranen even knows that a part of his forces are harassing the Portu tribe and threatening to cut off their water. Garat seemed subtle enough in that, at least."

"And I doubt not that he was aided by his superior’s own stupidity. Joranen always was a fool, and his incompetent managing of the Warra tribe will yet be his undoing," Asbad sighed with a shake of his head. "But this now turns to our advantage. The Portu tribe shall again aid us, though they may be reluctant to do so."

"Those here in Haradhur have sworn an oath of vengeance against me for my part in Bron’s death," Dashnir remarked with what might have been a smile.

Asbad chuckled, and something akin to a smile also crept over his weathered face. "The Portu tribe has sworn many oaths of vengeance against both of us. I wonder how many we may collect ere we destroy them completely. An amusing tribe, Portu." Asbad shook his head, turning his thoughts back to the problems that they faced. "Well, let us put Portu to good use. Bring in their leader, Radarad, and I shall have words with him. Also, send a hawk in Garat’s name to the Warra warriors and instruct them to once again cut off access to the hidden lake that the women and children of Portu use. It may be necessary to employ some leverage with Radarad for this next step."

"The sun is now an hour into the sky, honored one," Dashnir cautioned. "Radarad will not wish to meet with you, and the hawk will be hard-pressed to travel the distance necessary for such a message."

"It matters not if the hawk survives so long as we may say that a message has been sent and that the Portu tribe shall perish if Radarad does not follow our instructions," Asbad said. "And as for Radarad himself, inform him of the consequences should he ignore a summons from me. He is well aware of what happened to his predecessor."

Dashnir grinned and sketched a short bow. "It shall be as you wish, honored one. Will you require my presence for this meeting, or shall I retire for the day?"

"Nay, you need not be with me," Asbad said. "That you deliver the summons is enough for Radarad to know that Khurintu is united in this. We are not divided as is Warra, nor shall we ever be so undisciplined. Rest, Dashnir, and store up your strength for the days to come. You shall be my eyes and ears among the subordinates this coming night, and I will expect a full report of your findings come tomorrow morning."

"Then I bid you a pleasant rest after your… _discussion_ with Radarad," Dashnir said, his smile edged by a steely glint in his eyes. "And might I ask for a report of this meeting come evening?"

"Gladly will I give it," Asbad said, clapping the other man on the back. "For Portu’s attempts at political maneuvering are a comedy to be shared by all."

* * * *

It was late in the afternoon when Aragorn woke. For a short moment, he was conscious of nothing but the oppressive heat that bore down upon him, causing rivers of perspiration to trickle down from his thick hair and soak the back of his under tunic. Not that the moisture was doing much in the way of cooling him. The heat was too great for that. With a slight grunt, Aragorn managed to summon enough energy to wipe the back of his hand across his brow. His strength seemed to be sapped by the day’s temperatures and he silently cursed the Haradrim for choosing such an inhospitable land in which to dwell.

After the heat, the next thing to catch Aragorn’s heat-dulled senses was the fact that he was not the only one awake. With a frown, he slowly turned his head to the side and searched the tent. His sharp eyes roamed over the splayed form of Eomer who murmured somewhat at his dreams, the snoring dwarf who might have seemed oblivious to the heat were it not for the fact that his beard was almost dripping with sweat, and the empty pallet of mats where Legolas had gone to sleep earlier that day.

__

But where is that elf now? Aragorn wondered, searching the rest of the tent and finding no sign of Mirkwood’s prince. Slightly alarmed, he managed to raise himself up on one arm and conduct a more thorough search of the tent. He found Legolas’s bow and quiver, but he could not find Legolas. It was a measure of consolation to see that the elf’s silver-hafted hunting knife also seemed to be missing, but Aragorn’s concern continued to rise.

__

He has only just recovered from ú-glîr _. What is he thinking? Only a fool takes his chances by braving the sun in the middle of the day. Surely even an elf has better sense than that!_ But even as this thought crossed his mind, Aragorn was forced to remind himself that this particular elf was Legolas, and Legolas had a habit of not only looking for trouble but of also successfully finding it. _And in addition to that, he has also occasionally managed to bring said trouble back with him so that all his friends might enjoy it._

With a groan for the effort this would cost him and for the fact that he was doing this during the hottest time of the day, Aragorn rolled to his feet and wiped his face free of sweat. He had been right. That motion had cost him dearly, and the king of Gondor intended to see that Legolas was the one to pay the price. _When I find that elf, I’ll—_

But Aragorn was not allowed to speculate further on what exactly he was going to do to Legolas, for at that moment, Legolas parted the tent flap and entered. He blinked once at finding Aragorn waiting for him but then nodded pleasantly and started to return to his corner of the tent.

"Where were you?" Aragorn demanded, feeling as though he was speaking to a wayward child.

Apparently, the feeling was shared by Legolas, for the elf arched one elegant eyebrow and turned to study Aragorn with air of an elven lord who has been greatly offended.

Sighing, Aragorn rolled his eyes, shook his head, and decided to try another tactic. "Legolas, it is the middle of the afternoon. May I inquire—solely for the sake of my own curiosity—as to what prompted you to rise and leave the tent?"

Slightly mollified, Legolas’s rigid posture relaxed and his eyes lost some of the burning elven intensity that could turn a man inside out. "I received a warning and chose to investigate."

Aragorn frowned. "A warning? What form did this warning take?"

"The form of a messenger who wished to speak with me. I judged it would be best if such a discussion were done away from the tent so as not to disturb the rest of my companions." Legolas then fell silent, apparently under the impression that he had said all that needed to be said.

"I suppose that you know what Gimli will do to you when he hears of this," Aragorn said after the silence turned uncomfortable.

The elf stiffened and fixed Aragorn with a dangerous glare. "Why should the dwarf hear of this?"

"Because you are not supplying me with the details of your warning and your discussion."

Legolas’s eyes narrowed and he studied the king of Gondor for a minute or two as if evaluating the seriousness of his threat. At length, he nodded reluctantly. "Very well, then. If you say nothing of this to Gimli, I shall tell you what I have learned this day."

"Done," Aragorn said, sitting down and gesturing for the elf to do likewise.

"Arabano," Legolas said after he was seated. "He spoke to me somewhat early in the morning ere departing for his own tribe. His words were vague and he spoke as one who is not entirely sure of his leader’s intents, but the possibility of an alliance with the Lotessa tribe was mentioned. That possibility has now become a tentative offer, but it seems as though Lotessa wishes it not to be known. Thus, they are using Arabano as a quiet diplomat."

Aragorn was silent for a moment, thinking this new development over. "The Lotessa tribe has long held an unspoken disdain for Khurintu," he said at length, choosing his words with care. "And the feeling is more than reciprocated. Yet both tribes have been content to let distance shield them from one another, for Lotessa rarely ventures north and Khurintu does not stray further south than Haradhur. Did Arabano say aught else?"

"Earlier before the gates of Haradhur, he warned me that Gondor and Rohan may need to ally themselves with Lotessa in order to combat the threat of Khurintu. He said much the same thing a moment ago. Unfortunately, he does not seem to know what Khurintu intends. Nor have I been unable to determine whether the Lotessa tribe is looking for power in its own right or whether it seeks to provide a counterbalance for Khurintu."

"And that question is the key," Aragorn murmured. "Lotessa is a tribe of warriors and raiders much like Khurintu, but being so far south, they were somewhat independent of Sauron’s policies. If pressed, I think I would place my trust with them rather than with Khurintu, but that does not mean that they do not have their own agenda." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, and then turned back to the elf. "When had you planned to inform me of this? It was clear you did not wish to when you returned."

"You needed your rest, Aragorn," Legolas explained with a shrug. "Your blood is Númenórean, but you are still mortal and it seems to me that you have a tendency to forget that. I was planning to tell you tonight ere the Gathering began."

Anger rippled through Aragorn for a moment and his gaze turned dark. "If I had need of a healer to watch over me, I would have brought one with us."

"But you did not, and as your friend, I have taken upon myself that duty," Legolas answered, not in the least intimidated by Aragorn’s forbidding glare. The elf smiled then, his expression softening and his voice growing quiet. "Peace, Estel. I only look now for your wellbeing as you looked for mine while I labored beneath _ú-glîr_. Allow me to return the favor, if I may, and so ease the debt I feel. Or fight me if you will, it matters not. You are not the only one with the tricks of a healer, for I have learned much through observation and I will make you sleep yet if you attempt to defy me."

Aragorn blinked, somewhat surprised by these words, and then a chuckle escaped him. "My apologies, Legolas. I fear you are right. I have not obtained enough sleep, and this heat has made me short of temper. Still, that cannot be helped now. It is late enough in the afternoon that the search for rest would be wasted upon me. Let us speak further upon the matter of Arabano and the Lotessa tribe. Hopefully, between a prince of Mirkwood and a Ranger of the north, we may find some solutions."

"At the very least we shall weary ourselves with thoughts of potential political intrigue and so allow boredom to send us to sleep," Legolas said.

"Politics of the Haradrim are never boring, Legolas" Aragorn said with a wry smile. "I doubt very much that they shall send us to sleep."

"Say on, then, and teach me the ways of politics that never bore," Legolas said. "If what you say is true, perhaps this Gathering will yet be interesting."

"A Gathering is always interesting from a political standpoint, but this one…" Aragorn shook his head. "Foreign powers have never before been invited to a Gathering. Something special is planned."

"It seems that fate has destined us to meet with singularly special circumstances," Legolas sighed. "But come. The minutes drag by, and even as an immortal, I feel the passage of time. Let us take what counsel we may, and I am certain that we will find a way to circumvent whatever plans are laid for us."

"Mayhap," Aragorn said, but a strange feeling had begun to grow in his heart. It was a feeling of foreboding and doom much as he had endured after the decision to brave Moria. It was also the same feeling that had haunted him on the grass of Parth Galen moments before Boromir fell to the arrows of the Orcs. _Yet how shall I apply this warning?_ Aragorn demanded silently. _There was little enough that I could do for Gandalf in Moria, and though I should have spoken to Boromir earlier, I know not how his death could have been averted. What is the use of these feelings when I can do naught to prevent mishap and danger?_

"Aragorn?"

The king of Gondor shook his head and looked up at Legolas’s questioning gaze, only now realizing that he had lost himself in thought. "My apologies," he said. "It was but an errant thought. We were speaking of Lotessa, correct?"

"Correct. Are you ill?"

Aragorn scowled and sent the elf a rather dark glare. "Must I remind you that there is a healer in our company but that the healer is not you?"

"Nay, I remember well enough. But I think that perhaps the healer should look more to his health than to his pride."

"And who are you to lecture me concerning pride?!"

Legolas laughed, and at the elf’s merriment, Aragorn felt some of his feelings ease. "I am but the youngest son of Thranduil and a prince of little standing in Mirkwood’s realm, particularly since I named Gimli _elvellon_ ," Legolas answered at length. "I know my place and I know to take care of my wellbeing."

"I doubt that very much," Aragorn snorted. "But such things may wait for a later time. Let us turn our minds again to the desert tribes. As you said before, time marches on regardless of our pleas to the contrary, and we have much to discuss."

* * * *

Much as he had on almost every morning for several days now, Eomer woke to find himself drenched in sweat. With a tired sigh, he wondered how he was still alive, for he did not think he drank nearly enough water at night to compensate for the day’s perspiration. He also wondered how the horses fared. Eomer had observed that Shade was not performing at his usual level, and he gave the desert full credit for the decline in energy and speed.

Quietly cursing the sand and heat that made up this wretched land, Eomer rolled off his side and onto his back, blinking his eyes open and staring at the white roof of the tent. The exact time was difficult to tell because there were now spacious buildings surrounding their encampment that blocked the sun, but Eomer judged sunset to be roughly an hour or so away. _An hour until the desert finally begins to cool_ , he sighed. _And an hour after that until the Gathering begins, or so I remember from Aragorn’s words. There shall be much to do in that latter hour, but activity must needs be kept to a minimum at present. What, then, shall I do for the next hour?_

Eomer grimaced and stretched slightly. There was actually quite a bit that could be done during the next hour, but he recognized in himself an anxious twitch that almost always precluded any diplomatic function. Words were not his strong suit, a fact that had been thoroughly driven home after several disastrous arguments with Gríma Wormtongue before Theoden. Eomer was quite perceptive and had an uncanny ability to see the heart of a situation while diplomats danced around the subject, but he had not the talent for persuasion, and when pressed, he quickly lost what little tact he possessed. Consequently, he ruled more by actions than by words, but in this situation, at least for now, words were the weapon of choice.

Aragorn, on the other hand, was quite adept at both actions and words, a consequence of growing up with a Ranger’s training in an elven household. From Elrond he had learned the ways of verbal warfare, from Elrond’s sons he had learned the ways of physical combat, and from Glorfindel he had learned to achieve a balance between his abilities. A pang of jealousy flashed through Eomer, but he quickly shoved the feeling away. He could no more fault Aragorn for the circumstances of his upbringing than he could fault Gimli for having been born a dwarf. Still, it did irk Eomer that he would have to allow Aragorn to take the lead in the upcoming negotiations. Had Legolas still been shadowed beneath _ú-glîr_ , Eomer might have been so upset that his judgement would have given way to anger. Fortunately, this was not the case, but there was still a lingering feeling of competition as far as Eomer was concerned. Gondor was more powerful than Rohan and garnered more respect from other lands, and this was something that did not sit well with the lord of the Mark. Did not Rohan ride to Gondor’s rescue and so drive Sauron’s forces from the very gates of Minas Tirith herself? Did not Eomer’s own sister slay the Witch-King as he cast his fell shadow upon the West? And did not Rohan stand with Gondor before Mordor during that last, terrible battle before the Morannon when it seemed as though all hope had failed?

"I need breakfast," Eomer muttered to himself, recognizing that his current thoughts were more a part of his overall anxiety than a part of his slight grudge against Gondor’s far-reaching power. "And after that, I must find something that will occupy my mind."

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Eomer glanced around the tent and made a rather strange and startling discovery: Aragorn and Legolas were both gone. With a frown, the horse-lord stood and looked about, seeking any sign that might inform him as to where the king and the elf had gone. Andúril was missing as was Legolas’s knife, but the elf’s bow and quiver lay beside his empty bed. _Perhaps they are in one of the buildings,_ Eomer mused. Aragorn had explained that in this section of Haradhur, the buildings were actually elaborate shelters built around wells and were open to travelers for refuge. Shaded and near water, they provided a relatively cool place to wait out the day. Gondor and Rohan, though, had elected to camp outside the buildings. Aragorn had also mentioned that the buildings were favorite hiding places for assassins and thieves, for there was a maze of twisting corridors connecting various wells and countless places that would provide cover for a man possessed of ill intentions. Eomer had understood the need for wariness then, but at the moment, his desire for relief from the heat was overwhelming caution. In addition to that, he was intensely curious as to what had prompted Aragorn and Legolas into leaving the safety of the camp.

Poking his head out of one of the tent’s two doors, Eomer winced at the wave of heat that immediately caught him full in the face. Steeling his will, he stepped outside and looked around for the closest building. Finding it, he quickly made his way over to its shade and stepped inside, breathing a sigh of joy almost immediately. While still quite hot, the building was indeed cooler than the tent, and at the moment, any form of relief, no matter how little that relief might be, was welcomed with open arms.

After basking for a moment in the entryway, Eomer moved further into the building, waiting somewhat impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He soon picked out a variety of forms scattered across the clay floor. Most were asleep, but there were a few small groups of individuals who whispered quietly. They looked up at Eomer’s entrance and a hush seemed to fall. The king of Rohan watched warily, his hand near the hilt of his sword should it be needed, and then the Haradrim resumed speaking among themselves. Relaxing slightly, Eomer glanced about and soon spied movement in the form of a waving arm on the far side of the room. _I am thankful they did not venture too far into this maze_ , Eomer sighed as he moved over to join Legolas and Aragorn, _else I would not have been able to find them._

"Good evening to you, Eomer," Aragorn said, gesturing for the king of Rohan to seat himself.

"And a good evening to the both of you," Eomer returned, deciding that in this case, the direct approach would probably be best. Not wasting a bit of time, he put this strategy into play. "What are you doing here?"

"Planning," Legolas answered.

__

Trust an elf to answer as vaguely as possible, Eomer sighed, looking over at Aragorn for an explanation.

"We are planning our strategy for the Gathering," the king of Gondor elaborated.

"Ah. May I then ask why I am not a part of this strategy?"

"Because you are a king, not an underling," Legolas answered.

Aragorn groaned slightly while Eomer blinked, frowned, shook his head, and decided that elves were useless if one wanted information. "Aragorn?" he prompted.

The king of Gondor smiled and laughed quietly. "Our talk did not touch upon your part or mine in the Gathering tonight, and we had no wish to disturb you sleep, for you will have need of what strength rest might grant you."

"What mean you when you say ‘my part’?"

"I think to better answer you I should explain more about the Gathering. I had planned to do so when Gimli was also present, but now will serve just as well. The Gathering is actually a two-part event, one part formal and one part informal. The formal Gathering is the meeting between tribal leaders. That is where we shall be. It is mostly a time for discussion of trade and issues of water rights. It is not entirely without use, but neither does it hold the heart of what happens during a Gathering. That lies more in the informal meetings."

"And the informal meetings are what tribal advisors and second-in-commands attend," Eomer gathered.

"And underlings such as myself," Legolas added with a mischievous grin.

Aragorn sighed and glared at the elf. "Whenever you wish to discontinue using that term, please feel free."

"But how can I discontinue something that my king so graciously began?"

"Legolas, I used the word in jest."

"To my ears it did not sound like jest."

Eomer glanced between the two, debated the matter for a moment, and then decided that he really didn’t want to know. "So you and Legolas have been discussing what he and Gimli must look for as well as what they might seek to accomplish."

"Exactly. Imhran will serve better in the role as an observer, for he has not the instincts for political maneuvering that Legolas inherited from his father."

"Despite the fact that I am an underling," the elf added helpfully.

Aragorn rolled his eyes but decided not to respond to Legolas. "I know not how you wish to use Arhelm, but it seems to me that Legolas and Gimli could speak for both our kingdoms. This way we would appear united and so present a stronger front."

"I will heed your counsel," Eomer said, ignoring the small spark of annoyance that flared at Aragorn’s presumption. After all, the king of Gondor had been in this land before and better understood its customs and perspectives.

"Your own role in this is easy enough," Aragorn continued. "Simply remember a few very important guidelines. Never take an offer at face value, never accept an offer the first time it is given, and never make the assumption that a matter has been settled. Beyond that, I have no words of advice to give you."

"Here comes one, though, who looks as though he has words of advice to give us all," Legolas suddenly spoke up with a quiet laugh, his eyes focused on the building’s entrance. A rather irate dwarf was making his way toward the group, his face fixed in a fierce scowl and his fists clenching around his axe.

"Think you that we might be in trouble?" Eomer asked with a chuckle.

"He does not look happy," Aragorn agreed.

"Imhran and Arhelm came looking for you," Gimli announced as he reached the group, his mouth set in a firm line and his dark eyes fixed on the two kings. "When they could not find you, they woke me instead. There is still half an hour before sunset. I have no desire to be awake at this time, yet for some reason unfathomable to me, I am. Would you kindly see to your two captains so that they might let me rest again?"

Legolas could not quite contain the laugh that escaped him when the dwarf was finished speaking, and he soon became the subject of a glare that would have done an Orc justice. Of course, this only made the elf laugh harder and things might have devolved further had Aragorn not spoken, sensing that Gimli was only moments away from lashing out at the prince.

"Our thanks, my friend," Aragorn said. "Are they at the tents now?"

"They are searching the buildings much as I was," the dwarf growled. "As to which buildings they currently search, I know not. Much like the three of you, they left no itinerary and gave me no word."

Legolas started to laugh again and Gimli’s hands clenched around the haft of his axe as a warning. Watching the two, Eomer shook his head and wondered how they had ever come to be friends. The two were as different as night and day, and this showed through clearly in both their actions and their constant battle of words. Yet for all their differences, never had Eomer seen a stronger friendship.

"Master Legolas, I trust you wish to keep that empty head of yours perched upon your neck. Am I correct?"

Legolas’s laughter died away slowly though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. "Ah, Gimli. Surely you do not think to challenge me. I now know the ways of mortal battle in addition to possessing my own strength and agility again. I fear you shall find me more than a match for you on any field. Of course, that has always been the case before."

Gimli growled something low in his throat while his eyes flashed dangerously, but Eomer could tell the dwarf was not quite awake enough to match Legolas insult for insult. With a shake of his head, the horse lord cleared his throat. "Let us return to the tent, for the sun will set soon and there is much to discuss. Legolas may have been instructed concerning the Gathering, but Gimli and the men have not."

"Your words are wise, Eomer," Aragorn seconded, getting to his feet. "Come. The day ends, but our work is just beginning. This night will reveal much of what goes forth in the desert, and we must be prepared. Already there has been slight of hand and secret meetings."

"And it seems that underlings shall play an important role," Legolas whispered to Gimli, though his voice was pitched to carry.

Aragorn shook his head but refused to be baited, instead turning and moving toward the door. "Underlings?" Eomer asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"Alas, King Eomer, I fear I am poor company for you," Legolas answered with a low bow. "For King Elessar has revealed to me this day my true standing in the world. I am an underling, and my duty is to serve those whose minds and hearts comprehend things that are far beyond my feeble grasp."

"I think I liked him better under _ú-glîr_ ," Gimli growled, stomping after Aragorn.

"You are not alone in that thought," Aragorn called, glaring over his shoulder at the grinning elf. Legolas shrugged and then moved to follow them, leaving Eomer to take up the rear.

__

I shall never understand any of them, he decided. _And I think that is probably for the best._

 

 

__

Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for _ú-glîr_ , the shadow that blocks Ilúvatar’s song


	20. Tests and Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

__

Okay, for those of you who are somewhat confused about what’s going on, I’ve included a VERY extensive recap at the end of this chapter with almost everything that’s been revealed so far. But understand that you’re *supposed* to be confused because not all the plans have been revealed. The recap does NOT cover anything in this chapter, though, because I drop far too many hints here to even attempt explaining it all in a summary. Sorry. Anyway, hope that helps and happy reading!

Despite the circumstances and despite the growing feeling of foreboding, Mohart decided there was something endlessly comforting about returning home. Dol Amroth had been far too muggy for him, and he’d been uneasy in a land with so many trees and rivers. Water flowed by unchecked, and the desert tribesman within Mohart had yearned to collect every drop for safekeeping. Allowing his horse to drink its fill at Anduin had been a painful procedure, and he’d nearly screamed aloud with fury when two soldiers had collided just before departure and accidentally spilled the contents of three water skins. Mohart had been in the northern countries occasionally, and he was aware of the differences in the environment and the resulting differences in customs and traditions, but awareness and acceptance were at opposite ends of the same spear. _Yes_ , Mohart sighed, allowing his eyes to drink in the endless stretch of the horizon and the eternal sand. _It is very good to come home._

Mohart noted with some amusement that he seemed to be the only one in the company at ease. The knights of Dol Amroth were clearly unnerved by so little vegetation, and even Imrahil, who had been in the desert before, was obviously uncomfortable. Mohart considered it just payback for the poison he had ingested earlier and decided to enjoy himself until the men finally relaxed and learned to adjust. He held no real grudge for Imrahil as Dashnir’s hand had clearly been involved in the incident, but at the same time, Mohart was enjoying a certain amount of satisfaction in watching the others now squirm.

They were all saddled and waiting on the edge of the desert where the vegetation gradually gave way to creeping sand and an increasingly arid climate. The sun had disappeared behind the western horizon and the chill of night was beginning to steal over the earth. Some of the horses shifted restlessly and tossed their heads, not understanding the delay. Mohart readily sympathized with them for he didn’t quite understand the delay either. It was now safe to set out across the sand, but for some reason, Imrahil had yet to give the order. He sat as though frozen on the back of his silver mount, and his piercing gray eyes traced the contours of the desert that opened before them.

Nudging his own horse forward until he was even with the prince, Mohart cleared his throat and inclined his head. "Should we not begin, honored one?" he asked, his voice pitched so that only Imrahil would hear the whispered words.

"A moment," Imrahil answered. "I would fix this scene in my memory so that my dreams may have some point of reference."

Mohart frowned, wondering if perhaps his command of the Westron tongue was slipping. "I fear I do not understand, honored one. A point of reference for dreams?"

"When we enter this land, my men and I enter unfamiliar territory," the prince explained quietly. "And come day, when we lie down to sleep, this land shall infuse itself into my dreams. I would give my mind some memory of the area where sand meets water and so ease the transition." Apparently sensing Mohart’s complete confusion, Imrahil then laughed quietly and turned, his gray eyes twinkling with the light of the stars. "I fear it is something gifted to me by distant elven ancestors of long ago. My men have no understanding of it either. But you are correct. Time passes while we sit idle. I have now a reference for my dreams, and the hand of fate has a mission for us, or so it seems." And seeming to banish his solemn mood as swiftly as it had appeared, Imrahil then drew his sword and raised it high into the air, crying aloud to the soldiers who waited behind him. "Forward! This day, Gondor has need of us, and Dol Amroth rides to her aid! Forward, knights of the swan!"

A shout rose up from both horses and men alike, and they also drew their weapons as a symbol of both their resolve and their loyalty to Gondor. Then, as one body, the company set out to the music of many hooves. Relishing the touch of a dry wind whipping at his face, Mohart savored the feel of gritty sand a moment before raising his desert scarves about his head and securing them in place. Then urging his mount to an even faster speed, he drew even with Imrahil and shouted to the starry sky, rejoicing with the feeling that he was finally home. He heard the prince’s laughter and for his part, Imrahil encouraged his own horse to even greater speeds. A fey mood seemed to have come upon the group, but Mohart thought nothing of it. He knew only that he rode in the presence of warriors, and the sounds of battle cries rang loud in his ears. Khurintu knew not what it faced, but Mohart did. He had witnessed for himself the courage of these men. They were bound body and soul to the good of Gondor, and should Asbad and Dashnir do aught to King Elessar of King Eomer, then there would be blood upon the sand.

And so the company crossed the border into Harad, spears and swords raised to the stars and the light of the moon glinting silver off bare blades.

* * * *

The history of Harad’s Gathering stretched as far back as the history of the oldest tribes, or so the records of the Haradrim indicated. None knew of an age in which the Gathering had not been held, and none knew of any year in which the Gathering had not taken place, no matter what obstacles or circumstances might have stood in its way. Insofar as the Haradrim were concerned, the Gathering was a tradition that could trace its roots to the dawn of time. While this was certainly something of a stretch, it was probably safe to say that the Gathering was one of the oldest mortal traditions in Middle Earth, and it was in no danger of fading away in the near future.

By comparison, the present location of the Gathering was relatively new. Initially, the Gathering had been held in the Sihal within one of the larger volcanic caverns. But as Harad’s population began to grow and new tribes were formed out of civil wars, it became necessary to move the Harad to a place that offered more water, more shelter, and more space. As the oldest permanent settlement in Harad and also something of a central location, Haradhur was chosen as the Gathering’s new home. A great circular building was erected, crowned by a dome of glass made from the desert sand. The building was actually two circles. The inner circle was a great room in which stood a large, circular table for tribal heads to sit and discuss matters. The area between the walls of the inner circle and the walls of the outer circle was a curving hallway for guards to stand watch should delegates desire it. In recent years, it had also become the center for unofficial tribal business between second-in-commands and others prominent tribal figures.

It was inside the inner circle, or main room, that Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli now stood, patiently waiting as other delegates filed in and more or less ignoring the open stares that were sent their direction. At least, Gimli was attempting to ignore the stares, but having never been the object of such attention, he was beginning to feel a little uneasy. Aragorn had explained that the first night was primarily a night of introductions and formalities, something that had made Gimli shiver with dread. He hated formalities, he hated long speeches, and he hated diplomacy. The dwarf was more than ready to quit this room and retreat into the hall where the real work would begin. By contrast, Legolas seemed completely relaxed and looked as though he had not a care in the world. There were times when Gimli truly loathed his friend.

However, since there was nothing he could do about the elf, Gimli firmly schooled himself in patience and prepared to submit to the endless formalities of men. If Legolas could do it, then so could the dwarf. He would sooner let his axe go dull than allow the elf to upstage him in anything. This being the case, he murmured no word of complaint and stood silently behind Eomer as the last of the delegates entered and assumed their places at the table.

Theoretically, no place was favored above another at the table, but Aragorn had explained that it was best to sit on the north side of the room because traditionally, that was where the more powerful tribes sat. And as Gimli watched, he saw that Aragorn was right. Aside from Gondor and Rohan, Dashnir of the Khurintu tribe was also standing by a seat on the northern end of the table, as was the tribal head of Gartabo—a man whose name Gimli had been told but could not remember. Also on the northern end, Arabano stood behind the tribal head of Lotessa. Gimli recognized no one else, but the other men who stood around them were elegantly dressed and powerfully built. It seemed safe to assume that they came from influential tribes as well.

"Why does Dashnir stand behind the seat?" Legolas suddenly whispered, moving close to Aragorn so that his words might remain secret. "He is not the tribal head. Where is his leader?"

"I know not," Aragorn murmured, keeping his face forward but turning his head slightly as he addressed the elf. "It is not a good sign, that much is certain. Very rarely has a tribal head missed a Gathering. This does not bode well."

Gimli shifted uneasily and moved to ask under what circumstances this had happened before, but a sudden silence fell over the room and he fell back behind Eomer, wondering what was about to happen. He’d been briefed by Aragorn, but he was still somewhat uncertain. The ways of men were always something of a mystery, and he was not one to trust to explanations, even those given by trustworthy men such as Aragorn. And so Gimli watched with all senses straining for any sign of the dangerous or the unusual as the Gathering officially began.

The tribal head of Gartabo stepped forward— _What is his name?_ Gimli demanded of himself—bowed to all gathered in the room and began to speak. " _Akhlan, nadiion, liHaradhur_."

As one, the other delegates responded quickly. " _Akhlan biikak_."

Gartabo’s leader bowed again and then turned toward Gondor and Rohan. "This year the Gathering also welcomes King Elessar and King Eomer from the north, rulers of Gondor and Rohan. For their benefit, all official proceedings from this time forth shall be conducted in Westron."

There was some muted grumbling at this, but apparently the announcement was not totally unexpected and no great protest was made. Satisfied, Gartabo’s leader nodded and continued with the formalities.

"The foreigners will introduce themselves first so that we may come to know them, and then we shall introduce ourselves to them. After that, all shall be dismissed save the leaders and the Gathering shall begin." With that, the man inclined his head toward Aragorn and stepped back, relinquishing the floor.

" _Nashkranakom bi’ilfirssa wa bi’ilsharraf_ ," Aragorn said with a hidden smile. There was some murmuring at his sudden switch into Haradric, but just as quickly—and to Gimli’s eternal gratitude—the king changed back to Westron. "Leaders of Harad, I am King Elessar of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn, of the house of _Telcontar_. Behind me stands Prince Legolas the elf, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and Lord of Ithilien within the realm of Gondor. He serves this day as my second." When Aragorn was finished speaking, he stepped to one side and Legolas moved forward, holding himself as proud and as arrogant—arrogant at least to Gimli’s mind—as any elven lord. His gray eyes glittered as they surveyed the men before him, and more than one blanched and turned away under his piercing gaze. At length, Legolas dipped his head slightly and moved back, the corners of his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. Hushed murmurs filled the room, and Aragorn cast a quick grin back at Legolas, thanking him for the edge he’d given Gondor.

__

Showoff, Gimli grumbled to himself.

Aragorn now nodded at Eomer, indicating that it was his turn. Eomer took a breath and stepped closer to the table, distancing himself slightly from Aragorn. "Delegates, I am King Eomer of Rohan, son of Eomund, and I command the horse-lords in the fair fields west of Gondor. Behind me, serving as my second, stands Gimli the dwarf, son of Glóin and Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond."

As Aragorn had, Eomer now stepped to the side and Gimli moved forward, bowed to the leaders and then stepped back. More murmurs arose and the dwarf shifted his feet self-consciously. As a general rule, Gimli thoroughly enjoyed attention, but he did not enjoy being the object of intense scrutiny. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Legolas smiling at him, apparently thoroughly enjoying his discomfort, and the dwarf shot the elf a dark glare, daring him to comment on this and promising fearsome consequences if he should say aught.

"We welcome you this day," Gartabo’s tribal leader said, interrupting the hushed conversations that had filled the room. "And now shall the rest of the introductions be made. I am Aulit, ruler of Gartabo. My second is Mohart, but as he is still in the northern countries, Pakron shall be serving in his place." A man that Gimli assumed to Pakron stepped forward and bowed to the rest of the Gathering. He then moved back and Aulit gestured for the next ruler to proceed.

"The Lotessa tribe wishes to extend its welcome to all. I am Budari, its ruler, and serving as my second is Arabano, who recently escorted the honored ones from Gondor and Rohan."

"A welcome to all. I am Joranen of the Warra tribe. My second, Garat, recently died on the trip back from Dol Amroth and in honor of his memory I act alone at this Gathering."

As the introductions continued, Gimli’s mind began to wander. He hated formalities with a passion, particularly formalities involving men. Elven formalities were also long, but at least they usually involved a large feast to break things up accompanied by song and story afterwards. With men, one could count on no such courtesies. The only thing one could count on was the fact that almost all formalities were destined to take hours on end with no hint of relief. Surreptitiously shifting his feet, Gimli once again caught Legolas smiling at him and it required all of his will power to refrain from knocking the elf to the ground. Instead, he directed a stern glower at the elven prince that suggested he would do well to watch himself. Clearly unimpressed with the dwarf’s threat, Legolas’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter and his grin widened.

__

I will catch him after the meetings just ere sunrise, Gimli promised himself. _This cursed elven smugness must stop or it shall drive us all mad! I begin to think that I am already less than sane._

Somehow sensing the silent interchange behind him, Aragorn rocked back on one foot and managed to send both elf and dwarf a rather severe glare. With a sigh, Gimli tried to focus on whatever it was the next leader was saying, but there were only so many ways to say "Welcome to you all, we’re glad to be here," and the dwarf was getting bored. Even if Legolas was insufferably arrogant at the moment, he was far more entertaining than the meeting. Besides, Gimli owed him one for vicariously waking him long before the dwarf intended to wake. Come to think of it, Aragorn and Eomer were also in need of some form of payback, not to mention Imhran and Arhelm, who did the actual waking. Yes, there would need to be some serious acts of revenge in retaliation for all that the dwarf had endured this night. Armed now with something to occupy his thoughts, Gimli focused his eyes on a point on the far wall so as not to be staring at anyone and let his mind go to work.

Some time later, Gimli was meditating on the possible uses for a small but nasty little creature he’d learned of called a scorpion when Legolas suddenly shifted beside him, alerting the dwarf to a possible development. Quickly filing the scorpion idea away and marking it for further contemplation, Gimli focused his attention back on the meeting and discovered that it was now Dashnir’s turn to step forward. Or rather, it was time for the ruler of the Khurintu tribe to speak, yet the ruler was not here. Distrust and suspicion now running rampant through his mind, Gimli narrowed his eyes and his hands strayed to his belt where his axe lay waiting. If Dashnir attempted anything, he would be ready.

"Honored ones, I regret to inform you that my leader, Asbad, will not be in attendance tonight. Another matter has come to his attention and he was called away early this evening. He will return in three or four days as circumstances permit. In the meantime, I shall stand in his place at this council."

In response to this announcement, there was dead silence. All stared at Dashnir as though he had gone mad. For his part, Dashnir returned their questioning looks with a smile that reminded Gimli very much of Thranduil during his most pig-headed moments. _And I do believe I’ve also seen that smile upon Legolas from time to time_ , he mentally added. It was rather unnerving, actually, because upon an elf, the smile was usually warranted. It was not appreciated, but there was almost always sound backing for it. Elves had a tendency to be right, and their extreme stubbornness and confidence born from this tendency was something that Gimli had more or less learned to live with. Upon a man, though… _No man should ever be that confident_ , Gimli decided, trying to ignore the chills that spread down his spine. _Especially when I do not trust them._

Eventually, Aulit spoke, his voice hesitant and uncertain. "This is unprecedented, Dashnir. No ruler has ever missed a Gathering except because of death or extreme cases of illness. And no second has ever stood in the council."

"Be that as it may, honored one, this is the will of the Khurintu tribe," Dashnir answered proudly. "I suggest we accept circumstances as they have come and move on with other business. Unless, of course, you wish to contest us."

This last statement was accompanied by a strange gleam in Dashnir’s eyes that immediately put Gimli on edge. Not that he hadn’t been on edge before, but now he knew something was definitely up. _But what?!_ Looking to Legolas in case the elf had received any sudden inspiration, Gimli felt his spirits fall when the elf glanced back and shook his head, his expression hinting that he was just as confused the dwarf was. _And Legolas does not like to be confused_ , Gimli reminded himself, watching as inklings of anger and suspicion began to flash across the elf’s bright eyes. _But then, neither do I._

Fortunately, it seemed that Legolas and Gimli were not the only two upset by this sequence of events. To their right, Gimli caught a glimpse of Arabano and his leader, Budari, holding a very hushed conversation in their own tongue. At length, Budari looked over at Dashnir and stepped forward.

"Does Khurintu’s will now govern this Gathering?" he challenged, his hand straying to his side where Gimli assumed a curved sword was hidden. That seemed to be par for the Haradrim.

"I could ask the same of you, honored one," Dashnir returned. "Does the Lotessa tribe presume to speak for the other rulers? Or do you merely voice your own misgivings? Answer with care, for my tribe does not like to be questioned."

"Do not mince words with me, Dashnir," Budari hissed. "The Lotessa tribe does not take well to veiled threats either, nor do we take well to seconds who assume the power of tribal leaders. The Lotessa tribe refuses to brandy treaties with a subordinate when it requires a ruler’s authority to act. Where is Asbad?"

"I regret that I am not at liberty to say," Dashnir demurred calmly, but his eyes had grown cold. "It is a matter of some importance to the Khurintu tribe and rather a delicate affair. Rest assured that all will come to light eventually and that your questions shall be answered in due time."

"By that, you mean to say that Khurintu shall dictate the time," Arabano spoke up from behind Budari.

"Arabano, you are out of order," Aulit said sharply.

"Nay, I beg to differ, honored one," Arabano replied. "I address a fellow second, and as such, I should have the leave of the Gathering to speak within these halls. If you grant unto Dashnir the right to speak, I claim that right as well, for upon this field, we are equals."

At this, the hall erupted into noise from both rulers and seconds alike. Stepping away from the table, Aragorn beckoned Eomer back and Legolas and Gimli forward. "Already this Gathering has gone awry," the king whispered, his voice so quiet that it was difficult for the dwarf to hear. "Stay alert and wary. I fear that not even the neutrality of Haradhur can shelter us now."

"But from whence does the threat come?" Eomer asked. "How does Dashnir taking Asbad’s place affect us? What could they possibly hope to gain by this other than to raise suspicion?"

"In truth, I cannot say," Aragorn answered, his expression one of deep concern. "Nor do I dare hazard a guess. This move is unlike them. They usually work in far more subtle ways. To come out and openly insult every other tribe at the Gathering…I like it not. It is as though they are taking the last great step before the storm. And I fear that we shall bear the brunt of it."

"Perhaps the Khurintu tribe has splintered and Dashnir now leads," Gimli offered.

"Perhaps, but I think not," Aragorn said. "From what I know of Dashnir and Asbad, they are sworn brothers in nearly everything they do, and under their guidance, Khurintu has escaped most of the internal strife that has plagued the other northern tribes since Sauron’s fall. Nay, I suspect they are united in this as they are united in all, but as for their purpose…I cannot say and I fear to presume too much."

"Shall I then pursue Arabano after we are dismissed?" Legolas asked, his sharp eyes scanning the room as accusations and questions continued to fly.

"I think you must. Lotessa, at least, has made no move openly against us, and at this point, we must trust someone. We are too few in number to combat Khurintu on our own," Aragorn replied.

"What of your riders, Eomer?" Gimli asked, searching the face of the horse-lord. "Do your instructions stand?"

"Now more than ever, and I would add to those instructions," Eomer whispered. "When you leave this hall, find Arhelm and instruct him to take all of the riders into the desert, not merely half. They are to search the surrounding area and mark the location of each tribe, but more than that, they are to look for signs of Khurintu’s leader. I would know what Asbad intends, for there were rumors that Radarad of the Portu tribe met with him this morning for some length of time."

Aragorn blinked at this and looked sharply at Eomer. "Why was I not informed of this?"

"I heard of this news just ere the Gathering began," Eomer answered, though his tone became slightly chilled.

"Radarad of Portu?" Legolas questioned, his eyes narrowing. "Think you that Khurintu seeks to use Portu against us now much as they did at Lake Supt?"

"There is not yet enough information to make that assumption, but it is a possibility," Aragorn answered. "Though how they would be used against us, I do not know. Of curiosity to me is how Warra might be involved. Garat was clearly working with Dashnir up until the time of his death, yet I sense now no alliance or friendship between Joranen and Khurintu."

"Gimli and I shall endeavor to solve this mystery," Legolas promised, suddenly turning his eyes back to the meeting. Aulit had been shouting for order and his continued cries were now being heeded.

"Dashnir, you realize that this is a serious breach in protocol?" Aulit asked as the room eventually quieted.

"For my tribe, I believe such a breach might be made, honored ones," Dashnir answered, his eyes gleaming. "It would be foolish for this Gathering to refuse to hear our words and our offers, for we have much that would be of value to the rest of you. Do not lightly dismiss Khurintu. It would not be in your best interests."

"This Gathering will not be threatened!" Aulit declared, his voice cold.

"Nor will Khurintu," Dashnir returned calmly. "Choose now, honored ones, for time is passing. If this body truly sees no need to include Khurintu in the Gathering, then I shall depart. But you shall all greatly rue such a decision."

A dead silence fell upon those in the hall, and then Aulit sighed, his voice filled with reluctant resignation. "I suppose that so long as you are here, Dashnir, you may as well act in place of Asbad." There were murmurs around the room at this, but Aulit raised his hand and the voices quieted. "So I have spoken and so it shall be. We will not discuss this further, and this Gathering begins now. I ask that all seconds, with the exception of Dashnir, exit the room so that the leaders might discuss that which is necessary."

"Stay on your guard," Aragorn hissed to Legolas and Gimli as men began filing past them for the exits. "Plots and schemes abound during a Gathering, and not least of these are assassination attempts."

"Then you had best watch your own back," Gimli answered with a small smile. "For it seems to me that you would make a better target than I. Besides, I would like to see anyone try to slip past the combined guard of a dwarf and an elf."

"Your pride serves you well, Gimli, but temper it with caution," Aragorn warned. "The Haradrim have been at this for more years than even Legolas might remember."

Legolas raised a brow at this while Gimli snorted. "Then I shall keep an eye on the elf," the dwarf promised, turning his attention to his best friend. "Come, ancient one, let us see if your skills are up to things that are old even compared to you."

"If my skills are not up to the task, then I fear that the consequences for you, Master Dwarf, shall be even more dire," Legolas retorted.

Eomer snorted and shook his head. "I care not how you go about ensuring one another’s safety so long as you both remember that you are here to serve the interests of Gondor and Rohan. I should not like to be called out because the two of you chanced to have a small skirmish that resulted in disaster."

For answer, Gimli gave a cocky grin and bowed. "Your wish is my command, my liege. Come, Legolas. The underlings have work to do." And chuckling at Aragorn’s almost immediate groan, elf and dwarf left the inner hall for the outer corridor where whispers and murmurs were already beginning to fill the air.

* * * *

Arabano’s mind was whirling with possibilities, accusations, and general dread. He stood in the outer hallway and watched as the lesser delegates like himself began milling about. Already groups were beginning to form, and distrust and suspicion were tangible entities in the air. As far as Arabano’s memory reached, never had a Gathering started on such a grim note. It was not unlike a Gathering to conclude with ill feelings, but to begin like this… Arabano shook his head. It was an ill omen.

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And of course it is Khurintu that brings this omen upon us, he sighed, turning dark eyes toward the various groups that were now conversing in hushed whispers. _By the blood of the Ages, what does Asbad intend? This move is far too abrupt for Khurintu. They hope to gain something by this, yet I cannot fathom what that something is._

Gritting his teeth, Arabano folded his arms and leaned back against the rounded wall. Unable to find answers on his own, he decided to see to other business in the hopes that it would further the quest for explanations. His sharp eyes swept the masses around him until he found the three guards that had accompanied himself and his leader Budari into the hall this night. Signaling them over, he then began searching the crowds once again. It wasn’t long before his sharp eyes were rewarded.

Hidden in the shadow of a pillar, he spotted the dwarf speaking quietly with Arhelm, the captain of Rohan’s guard. Arabano was somewhat surprised to discover that the elf was nowhere in sight, and he wondered what had caused the two to part ways. He spent another minute or so looking for the missing half of the nearly inseparable pair, but when his search proved fruitless, Arabano eventually gave up and decided that the dwarf would have to suffice for now.

"You have your instructions," he murmured to his guards. "See that you follow them to the letter. I will take no chances. This is far too delicate a matter."

The guards nodded smartly, and at Arabano’s dismissal, they separated and drifted into the crowds, making their way slowly but casually toward the dwarf and Arhelm. Looking about to ensure that his own movements were not being watched, Arabano also began drifting slightly closer, but he stopped a safe distance away. All he really needed was a clear vantagepoint, and he had now obtained one.

Arhelm and the dwarf appeared to have finished their conversation, for Arhelm was now moving in the direction of the doors. Fortunately for Arabano, though, the dwarf stayed next to the pillar. He appeared to be waiting for someone, and Arabano wondered if that someone might not be his elven friend.

__

Perhaps I should have waited, Arabano thought, realizing he still had time to call his guards back. But after contemplating the idea, he decided that watching the dwarf alone was probably for the best. He had seen enough of the elf and dwarf together to have a fairly good idea of their capabilities. At the moment, he was interested in the elf and the dwarf as separate individuals.

His guards had almost reached the dwarf now, and Arabano took a quick look around. He was more or less alone as he pressed himself up against the wall, and Arabano hoped it would stay that way. He could not afford to be caught away by trivial matters now. Satisfied that for the moment he was safe from the demands of insignificant delegates of small and petty tribes, Arabano turned his attention back to the dwarf. The show was about to begin.

The first guard was creeping toward Gimli from the rear, but apparently sensing his approach, the dwarf turned and confronted the man. The dwarf said nothing and did nothing, but the look in his eyes was enough and the first guard stopped, seemingly troubled. The second guard, though, chose this as his opportunity to move. Slipping silently and stealthily through the crowds, he closed the gap and was upon the dwarf with a speed that even Arabano had difficulty tracking. But as fast as the guard was, Gimli was faster. Sidestepping the man who rushed him from behind, he caught the guard’s arm in a firm grip and twisted, choking a startled cry out of his former hunter and causing a small knife to clatter to the floor.

__

Impressive, Arabano mentally praised, folding his arms and continuing to dissect the situation as events unfolded before him.

The third guard had arrived now, and with Gimli distracted by the second man, the first and third moved in. A space was beginning to clear around the group as others realized that something was taking place, and a hush had fallen over the crowds. But Gimli seemed not to care that he was drawing attention. Quite the opposite. The observation of others seemed to enhance his skills. Sensing that more guards were bearing down upon him, Gimli planted his weight firmly and then threw the second guard into his companions, knocking them to the floor. The dwarf then backed up slightly, giving them a chance to recover in the event that they should wish to consider peace.

But the guards had their orders, and they would follow them until different orders were given. As one they rose and spread out, preparing to flank the dwarf. Gimli moved against the wall to protect his back, but he now had one man before him and two on either side. If they rushed together, it was unlikely that the dwarf would be able to handle them. Arabano’s eyes narrowed as he considered the situation, but before anything could happen, he suddenly felt cold steel against his neck. He was given almost no time to react to this, for even as he reached toward his hidden knife, both arms were suddenly caught in an iron grip, wrenched above his head, and pinned firmly to the wall.

"Call them off."

Humiliated at being caught so unawares and so easily bested, Arabano turned his flashing eyes to the side and immediately found himself swallowed by an intense, ageless stare that seemed to capture his soul and hold it for further scrutiny. The gray eyes then narrowed dangerously and the knife at this throat moved slightly.

"Call them off," the order was repeated, and the look upon Legolas’s face left no doubt as to what the elf would do should Arabano refuse.

Almost writhing with embarrassment, Arabano turned his eyes back to the guards and the dwarf. Catching the attention of the first guard, he jerked his head and the man nodded, motioning the other two away. Leaving behind a very confused dwarf, the men turned and vanished into the crowd. Sensing that the spectacle was over, the others in the hall went back to whatever business had previously occupied them, taking the incident as part and parcel of life at Haradhur.

"A wise decision," Legolas whispered. The blade at Arabano’s throat suddenly vanished and his hands were released as the elf stepped back. Instinctively pushing away from the wall so as to give himself more room for maneuvering, Arabano began massaging his wrists while keeping an eye on the elf. For his part, Legolas didn’t move but watched impassively. To the untrained eye, his stance was casual and nonchalant, but Arabano sensed an awareness and a readiness about the elf that might put the greatest mortal warriors to shame. Legolas’s arms were relaxed at his sides, but there was a slight tension in them, so faint as to be barely discernable. And having recently been a firsthand witness of Legolas’s stealth and speed, there was no doubt in Arabano’s mind that the hunting knife sheathed on the elf’s hip could be out and ready again in a moment’s notice, possibly faster.

Holding his hands up to indicate that he intended no harm, Arabano inclined his head in Gimli’s direction. Legolas raised an eyebrow at this but after a moment of strained silence, he nodded and gestured for the man to proceed him. With a slight smile, Arabano nodded and began walking, acutely aware of the elf’s presence just behind him. Legolas was taking no chances. _This may work after all_ , Arabano reflected as a hint of hope began to take shape within his heart.

By now, Gimli had spotted both Arabano and Legolas and was moving toward them, but he his eyes strayed to the face of his elven friend and the dwarf stopped cold. Glancing over his shoulder, Arabano wondered what sort of messages were being passed between the two. The desert tribesman could read nothing in the elf’s face other than general wariness, but apparently a wealth of information was rapidly imparted to the dwarf, for his hand tightened itself on his axe and he took an instinctive step back as though preparing himself for some type of attack.

"I believe I owe both of you an explanation. If you would indulge me by listening…" Arabano trailed off and fell silent, watching both elf and dwarf closely in an attempt to gauge their reactions. But the silent language between the two was almost impossible to interpret. Legolas moved his shoulders slightly, Gimli shifted his stance, the elf inclined his head, Gimli folded his arms across his chest, Legolas’s eyes narrowed as he nodded, the dwarf sniffed, Legolas stepped back slightly, and then the conversation seemed to end. Both elf and dwarf looked as though they had reached a conclusion of sorts, yet Arabano couldn’t even begin to guess at what that conclusion was.

"Speak, for we are waiting to hear," Gimli said, his dark eyes studying the man with a scrutiny that reminded Arabano of the gaze Legolas had fixed upon him earlier.

"The Lotessa tribe does not act until we have sufficient information to do so," Arabano began, trying to keep both elf and dwarf within his sight but finding it impossible to do because Legolas seemed to be drifting behind him.

"Go on," Gimli prompted, drawing Arabano’s attention away from the elf.

"The actions of Khurintu have alarmed us this evening, and we seek to cement the alliance that I broached with you earlier."

Gimli’s eyes took on a guarded look and he frowned. "You have an interesting way of cementing alliances."

"That was not the purpose of the attack," Arabano explained. "The purpose of the attack was to evaluate your abilities. Lotessa has quietly opposed Khurintu for years, but Budari and I both feel that the time for subtlety has passed. Khurintu apparently has no more need for it, as you have both witnessed, and now we must also act with boldness. But in order to do so, we must be certain of our allies. We cannot afford to be encumbered by them. Our friends must be able to hold their own without our aid."

Silence fell upon the small group for a moment, and then the dwarf spoke. "This demonstration was unnecessary," Gimli growled. "And how am I to believe your words? For all I know, you could be speaking with the intent of saving your own neck."

Indignation flashed through Arabano and he stiffened, his hand unconsciously straying to his side where his sword was concealed. "The warriors of Lotessa are honorable men," he warned, his eyes flashing. "We are not cowards to escape with words. Nor do we defend our actions to others. We act as we see best, and then we take the consequences that come with those actions."

"Did we pass your test?"

The voice of the elf coming directly behind him startled Arabano, and he wondered how he had managed to lose track of Legolas during the conversation. "Yes," he said, turning away from the dwarf. "You did pass. The offer of an alliance now stands as an official request from Budari."

"Legolas…"

The elf looked at the dwarf and shook his head ever so slightly. Gimli snorted and mumbled something too low to make out, but apparently Legolas was able to hear it, for he smiled and his shoulders shook as though with suppressed laughter. Then the mirth vanished as quickly as it had come, and a hard light entered the elf’s eyes as he turned back to face Arabano.

"You threatened us, and that cannot be forgotten," Legolas said, his gray eyes darkening. "But I understand the reasons behind your caution. My own king in Mirkwood has used similar measures during long years of uncertainty. And I judge you to be a man of your word, Arabano." The elf glanced again at the dwarf, another series of indecipherable signals passed between them, and then Legolas turned his gaze back to Arabano. "We accept your offer of an alliance upon conditions. You tell us all you can of the Khurintu tribe, and you order the three men behind me to leave the hall and wait outside. I will not chance another…test. Such things have a way of growing beyond one’s control."

Surprised, Arabano tried to meet the elf’s eyes, but he found that he could still not withstand the piercing glance. With a sigh, he stepped back and looked beyond the elf, nodding his head at the three guards who had come back in the event that he might need them. He heard Gimli chuckle slightly at his obvious discomfiture, and despite his embarrassment, Arabano found himself smiling back. "I accept your conditions, and I offer my apologies in the event that I have caused offense," he said quietly. "It was not my intention, but in these dark times, one must make sure of one’s alliances."

"Indeed," Gimli said, the laughter still present in his voice but it was accompanied by a slight note of warning. "And how shall we test your skills, Arabano?"

"Should you wish to test them, you have only to name the opponent," Arabano answered with a slight bow. "It would be a fair request."

The dwarf grunted and looked at Legolas. Legolas nodded and Gimli turned his attention back to Arabano. "Then against my better judgement, the alliance stands. Let us go now and speak of Khurintu, for you have much to tell us."

"Much indeed," Arabano agreed. "Let us depart. I know of a place where we may speak undisturbed. And in Haradhur, such a place is a rare treasure, my friends."

"Lead on, then," Legolas commanded, his head suddenly swiveling and his eyes fixing themselves on a point near the outer doors. "For already I feel the regard of another, and his intentions are ill."

Curious, Arabano glanced the direction in which Legolas was looking, wondering who in the crowd of people might have caught the elf’s attention. What he saw froze him. A face leaped out at him for but a brief moment, and then it disappeared behind desert scarves as a man clothed in red robes turned away. The figure then slipped out one of the hall’s tall doors and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Completely stunned, Arabano took only a brief moment to collect himself and then he sprang into action, pushing through delegates and eventually making his way to the outside world. But by the time he broke free of the crowds, it was too late. The figure was gone and the night was empty. All was silent.

"Arabano?"

His heart pounding and his mind thrown into chaos, Arabano slowly turned around to face the elf and dwarf that now stood in the entryway, framed by the light of torches from within the hall. "He is here," Arabano whispered, searching desperately for explanations but finding only questions. "And he comes in the garb of the Destroyer."

"Who?" Gimli demanded, suspicion rising in his dark eyes.

"Asbad." Arabano turned again to face the night and shivered at the darkness he found in it. Something ill went forth. The omens and tidings were clear. "Come," he said as a feeling of dread began to rise in his heart. "Time runs short, and I fear the storm is already upon us."

 

 

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Akhlan, nadiion, liHaradhur—Welcome, leaders, to Haradhur (Haradric)

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Akhlan biikak—Welcome (the response) (Haradric)

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Nashkranakom bi’ilfirssa wa bi’ilsharraf—We thank you all for this opportunity and this honor (Haradric)

* * * *

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RECAP: First of all, taking my cue from terrific writers like Ithilien and Jocelyn, I’ve composed an original character list. It is not comprehensive, though. I’m only listing the original characters that play key roles either in this chapter or at some point during the remainder of the story. And yes, it looks long, but please don’t freak out on me! Besides, you know most of these characters already.

Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (primarily farmers)  
Aulit—Ruler of the Gartabo tribe and chairman of the Gathering  
Arabano—Second-in-command of the Lotessa tribe (warriors from the south)  
Budari—Ruler of the Lotessa tribe  
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (warriors from the north)  
Asbad—Ruler of the Khurintu tribe  
Fastahn—Member of the Soltari tribe (primarily farmers)  
Joranen—Ruler of the Warra tribe (warriors and raiders)  
Radarad—Ruler of the Portu tribe (raiders)  
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard  
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard  
 __

Next up, the recap itself. I’m going to give you guys an overall summary of the important bits broken down by events, tribes, and/or people. I hope it’s not too confusing, but there are a lot of details floating around. Okay, let’s get started.

 

The Gathering of Harad happens every year during the hottest time of summer. All tribes are expected to participate and tribal leaders must attend, which is why Aragorn and Eomer are going rather than sending Faramir and Elfhelm. It is also VERY unusual for foreign powers to be invited to a Gathering.

The delegation sent to escort Aragorn and company consisted of nine men, which is considered an unlucky number by some of the tribes in Harad. Mohart of the Gartabo tribe was to head the delegation, but when Imrahil attempted to drug Dashnir because of suspicions regarding the man, Dashnir switched cups with Mohart and the Gartabo delegate fell ill. So the group that set out into Harad consisted of eight men escorting Gondor and Rohan under the guidance of Dashnir.

Dashnir comes from the Khurintu tribe, which is composed of warriors and raiders. Also, the leaders of the Khurintu tribe are descended from the Black Númenóreans and have inherited perceptions and powers beyond those of ordinary men. They were highly favored by Sauron before the War of the Ring and learned much of his craft.

Aiding Dashnir in his plans was Garat of the Warra tribe, also a tribe of warriors and raiders but having no Númenórean blood. The Warra tribe is actually filled with internal strife, and unbeknownst to its tribal head, Joranen, Garat was leading a rebel faction and merely biding his time until he could overthrow Joranen. In the meantime, this rebel faction was restricting access to a water hole that the Portu tribe used. The Portu tribe is primarily a tribe of horse thieves, and using the water hole as leverage, Dashnir and Garat convinced Bron (of the Portu tribe) to stage an attack on Aragorn and Eomer in order to gauge their military ability.

During this attack, Dashnir and Garat observed some very fierce loyalty between Gondor and Rohan as well as among Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli. This loyalty inspired Dashnir to create alternative plans and send them off by hawk for approval. His leader, Asbad, agreed. We still don’t know what these alternative plans are. And toward the end of the attack, Dashnir put Legolas under ú-glîr _, primarily as a test to see if it could be done but also as a safeguard for things to come._

After the attack at Lake Supt was over, Aragorn figured out that Bron had somehow been behind the skirmish, but before Bron could say anything about it, Dashnir killed him. Things went downhill from there. Because of the extensive shadow required to put Legolas beneath ú-glîr _and also to keep him there, Aragorn started doubting himself, Legolas fell into depression, and Eomer became impulsive as well as jealous of Gondor for its power. When the group arrived at Lake Nurnein, Eomer became so upset that he attacked Garat, forcing Dashnir to use some of his sorcerer’s powers to wipe the horse-lord’s memories. This left Dashnir rather drained._

During the trip from Lake Nurnein to Haradhur, a sandstorm drove the entire group into the Sihal (volcanic rocks that run along the western edge of Harad). In these rather close quarters, the shadow of ú-glîr _drove Garat to attack Legolas. Dashnir was unable to prevent it or shelter Garat because wiping Eomer’s memories had drained him. Legolas eventually killed Garat, but the attack convinced Dashnir that he had to remove_ ú-glîr _before anything else could happen. Besides that, Legolas was actually adjusting to mortal senses, and_ ú-glîr _was more or less backfiring on Dashnir._

Upon final reaching Haradhur, Arabano from the Lotessa tribe (a rival tribe to Khurintu from the south) broached to Legolas and Gimli the idea of a tentative alliance with Gondor and Rohan. But it was a very tentative offer because the Lotessa tribe is a very wary tribe. They didn’t have Sauron’s favor during the years of his power, and as such, they learned to trust no one. And Aragorn and Eomer aren’t feeling all that trusting themselves.

Which leads us up to Chapter 19. The next part is a little tricky because I don’t want to give too much away, so I’ll just try to clarify what’s going on.

Legolas is enjoying a brief stint of euphoria that is natural after recovering from ú-glîr _and he’s really not paying attention to his senses very much._

Asbad and Dashnir want to make the Portu tribe serve them again in the near future, but they don’t know if they still have the leverage needed. The contingent of Warra soldiers guarding the lake that Portu uses was under Garat’s command and Garat is now dead. But Joranen (Warra’s leader) probably didn’t know about those soldiers because they were part of a rebel group acting without his authority. Thus, it’s quite likely that they wouldn’t have been informed of Garat’s death, so Dashnir thinks he can still control them using Garat’s name. If Dashnir is right, Khurintu still has control of the Portu tribe (which is lead by Radarad) because they still control the lake that Portu’s women and children need.

And while all this is happening in Harad, Mohart has recovered in Dol Amroth and convinced Imrahil (who has had some rather nasty dreams) to ride into Harad in order to stop Khurintu and Warra. So they’re on their way, but they’re still several days out of Haradhur. They have to reach Lake Supt, then Lake Miyarr, then Lake Nurnein, and then they can get to Haradhur.

And after that, you have Chapter 20, which you’ve either just read or are about to read.

 

**stops for breath** Okay, I don’t know if that made things worse or not, but I hope it helped somebody out there. If anyone has any questions that they really need cleared up, feel free to clog up the reviews with them or send me an email if it’s just a specific query. I can always try explaining things again! ;)


	21. United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Legolas had come to the conclusion that men were among the strangest of Ilúvatar’s creations. _And the customs that men follow are stranger still_ , he added silently, drifting through the shadows of the outer hall and watching the mingling delegates with a scrutiny that might make ordinary men blanch.

The Gathering had already been the scene of several interesting twists, and it was barely midnight. Had this meeting been elven and held within the halls of Mirkwood, there would have been no chance for anything to go awry so quickly. Politics would have stayed far away for the first night and the activities would have primarily consisted of opening formalities, including feasts and songs. To begin political negotiations so early into the meetings seemed foolish. One should first take the time to analyze the situation, and how better to do it than by listening to tales of the younger days while evaluating surrounding lords and nobles?

__

But that is the way of the elves, and I walk now in the world of men, Legolas sighed. _And as such, I am constrained to follow their lead. Still, I could better this Gathering if they would hearken to my counsel._ The elf sighed again and then shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His current mental track was far from his purpose now in the outer hall, and he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Arabano had been quite shaken after seeing the figure in red. For a long moment, he had stared into the darkness, but Legolas’s keen eyes could not find the man that Arabano claimed was Asbad. Failing to locate him, Arabano had started out into Haradhur’s streets with the intention of imparting to the elf and dwarf all that was currently known of the Khurintu tribe. But before they could reach a destination safe from listening ears, a rustle of desert robes down a dark alley had seized their attention. Gimli had been closest to the sound, and reacting quickly, he’d caught a glimpse of red garments moving back toward the site of the Gathering. Shaken again, Arabano had insisted they return and find Asbad before doing anything else.

Legolas frowned and leaned back against the wall. Arabano had been strangely persistent, and his instructions to them just before they had separated to search had been of a peculiar nature. According to Arabano, if the man in the red robes was spotted, then the hood of his cloak was to be thrown back and his desert scarves torn away, revealing the face behind the mask. Arabano had stressed this as being of the utmost importance, and insisted that it had to be done immediately upon finding Asbad. For his part, Legolas couldn’t see the logic in it. What was so important about immediately revealing that Asbad was the man in red? Surely it was more profitable to observe Asbad discreetly and by so doing perhaps obtain a better knowledge as to his intentions. After all, was not that a priority?

"Strange are the ways of mortals," Legolas murmured quietly to himself. Gimli had seemed to agree with Arabano, trusting in the man’s assessment of the situation, but Legolas had been dealing with plots and counter-plots for centuries. The current plan didn’t make sense. It would bring shame upon Khurintu by revealing that Asbad was in fact present at the Gathering, but that could also be accomplished by waiting and revealing Asbad after watching him. Legolas had attempted to explain this to Arabano, but the man would not listen, babbling something about signs and then moving out into the crowds to begin the search. Gimli had vanished just as quickly, leaving Legolas to wonder how men and dwarves had survived all the long years of Arda with such a weak grasp of political situations.

Lost in contemplation, Legolas almost missed the sudden hush that fell over the crowds. Fortunately, his senses were still attuned to his surroundings, and something deep within his mind sounded an alarm. Jumping back into reality, Legolas pressed himself up against the wall and took stock of the situation. Something in the hall had changed, and it did not take long for sharp elven eyes to spot the instrument of this change. 

A man now stood before him, swathed in heavy red robes with head and face both covered. Arabano’s instructions immediately came to mind and Legolas almost heeded them, but something held him back. Why should he listen to a man who had only moments before attempted to kill his best friend? For that matter, why was he trusting the counsel of a mortal? He was Legolas, prince of Mirkwood and son of Thranduil. He could take matters into his own hands and had, in fact, been doing so for centuries. Arabano wanted Asbad revealed as the man in red. That could be arranged, but first, Legolas wanted to know what Asbad was doing.

Silent as a shadow, the elf drifted closer and watched as the crowds hurriedly cleared the area around Asbad. Much to Legolas’s surprise, Asbad did nothing in response. He simply stood there, shrouded as he was, and looked as though he was waiting for something. Legolas didn’t know quite what he had expected the man to do, but it wasn’t this. Something about this situation was wrong, and Legolas began to wonder if he shouldn’t have heeded Arabano’s advice from the first.

And as Legolas mulled over his options, Asbad continued to stand motionless. His stillness was sharply juxtaposed by the commotion filling the halls. Men were literally scrambling over one another to get away from this figure, and a sense of panic seemed to have come over all. This was not conducive to Legolas’s thought process, but there was very little he could do about it save to stay out of the way. This proved easier said than done, for the panic was reaching dangerous levels and Legolas was hard pressed to maintain his position, and in the end, he failed rather disastrously. Dodging several frightened guards, the elf sidestepped away from the wall and suddenly found himself alone in the circle with the man in red.

Apparently, this was what Asbad had been waiting for. Robes rippling slightly, he raised one arm and extended it toward Legolas. This gesture caused a sharp hiss to go through the crowds and a tense silence fell. Caught off guard and completely bewildered, Legolas froze, not knowing what might be the appropriate response to this situation. The confidence that had previously imbued him seemed to have vanished, and he now wished fervently that he had hearkened to Arabano’s counsel and acted when the opportunity was first available. He did not think he could act now, for an inner sense told him that Asbad wanted him to move. And though he did not understand this instinct, Legolas obeyed it for he had naught else to advise him. So for an eternal moment they stood thus, motionless elf and red-robed figure. And while they stood, the world seemed to hold its breath.

A shout from somewhere beyond the crowd broke the spell with an abruptness that was disconcerting, and with but a moment of hesitation, the figure in red suddenly backed away from Legolas and turned away. The crowd parted for him as though he bore a dreadful plague, and then he disappeared from sight, slipping out a doorway and vanishing into the night.

Coming out of his shock, Legolas started to follow but was interrupted when a strong hand caught his arm. His caution heightened by his recent encounter, Legolas spun out of the hold and reached for his knife only to have his arm captured again, but this time there was a voice to go with it.

"Legolas! Cursed elf, it is I!"

"Gimli?" the elf murmured, looking down and meeting the concerned eyes of his friend.

"Who did you think?" the dwarf demanded, releasing Legolas but staying close to the elf. He eyed the surrounding crowds who now watched the pair with open suspicion and then started to move. "Come. Arabano is waiting outside. And according to him, you have just made a bad situation worse."

"Gimli I…I know not what prompted me, but I could not act. Not at first. I needed to know Asbad’s intent. And by the time I realized the folly of my actions, it was too late."

"Save your excuses until we can better discuss them," Gimli said, hurrying toward one of the doors as those gathered continued to stare at them. "I like not this scrutiny."

Legolas glanced about even as he quickened his own pace and had to concur with the dwarf. The surrounding men looked less than pleased. What had happened? What had been the meaning of the figure in red?

Elf and dwarf left the hall almost at a run, and Gimli let out an audible sigh of relief to be away from the distrustful eyes. No one had made any move to hinder them, but the tension had been palpable and it was a great joy to escape. Stopping to glance behind him, Legolas saw that a few men had gathered in the doorway and were still watching them.

"How did you move?" a voice suddenly demanded.

Whipping about even as he identified the owner of the voice, Legolas tried to make sense of the anomalous question and wondered just how confused he would become by the end of the night. He was already grasping at the ragged edges of sanity. "Pardon?"

Stepping away from the side of a building where the shadows had served to cloak him, Arabano started toward the elf and repeated himself, tacking on an explanation of sorts for good measure. "How did you move? When Asbad was confronting you, did you step toward him or away from him?"

Legolas looked at Gimli, but a slight shrug told him that the dwarf was just as lost in this as the elf. Turning his attention back to Arabano, Legolas decided that the tribesman from the Lotessa tribe had enjoyed the upper hand for far too long. "I will answer your questions, Arabano, if you first answer mine. What is the significance of the red clothing, and what is the significance of my response to he who wore it?"

Arabano frowned and hesitated a moment. "I will explain all, but our next action depends upon how you moved when you were confronted. I must have your answer before we can do anything."

With narrowed eyes, Legolas kept his peace for a moment and then decided to play along. "I did nothing."

The man blinked and stared at the elf. "You did nothing? You did not move?"

"It did not seem wise to do so," Legolas answered, watching Arabano carefully. "And now it is your turn. Give us the answers that we were promised."

"Back inside," Arabano ordered, ignoring the elf’s command. "For one hour, walk about, speak, do anything you like, but make certain you are seen by as many of the delegates as is possible."

Legolas frowned, feeling that bewilderment and frustration had just reached new heights. It was some consolation when Gimli moved restlessly at his side, apparently just as baffled as he was. "Arabano, if you would but take a moment and explain how—"

"We are wasting time, honored ones," Arabano answered briskly. "One hour and no longer. Then all your questions will be answered, upon that I swear. I fear that any explanation I offer now would be too long, and we would lose this opportunity to undo some of what has been done."

Legolas did not like to be confused, and he did not like to be ordered about by a man he barely trusted. More than that, his shame at having let Asbad escape was making him defensive, and before he did anything else, he wanted an explanation. It was not in Legolas’s nature to be impatient, but on this occasion, he wanted answers and he wanted them now. Drawing himself up and calling upon all the training of his father in methods of royal intimidation, Legolas took a small step toward Arabano and fixed him with a hard stare that might have made even Aragorn blanch. "And what exactly has been done?" he demanded, his voice ringing with all the indignation of an affronted elven lord. "For I would know more ere I set about undoing it."

Caught somewhat off guard by this sudden display of royal authority, Arabano took a reflexive step backward and lowered his gaze, unable to meet Legolas’s eyes. "The Destroyer is part of an ancient tradition, almost as old as the Gathering itself, and something that Lord Sauron used upon occasion when he wished to make an example of a tribe. How you moved when confronted by the Destroyer was illustrative of your reaction to his promised destruction. However, you didn’t move, honored one, and Asbad fled before he could press you. This can mean several things, but we must take measures to see that it is interpreted in a way that shall benefit us. You must be seen by others so that they will know you have neither joined with the Destroyer nor fled Haradhur in fear of his wrath."

Legolas frowned and decided that Arabano had been right. Any good explanation at this point would, by necessity, be a long one. It seemed that once again he would have play the Haradrim’s game and hope to come out on top in the end. "You are a man of honor?" he finally asked.

Arabano drew himself up with the air of one highly offended. "My honor has never been questioned by any who know the reputation of myself or the reputation of the Lotessa tribe."

"Then humor one who knows not the reputation of either," Legolas responded coolly. "You swear upon your own life that we will receive a full explanation in one hour?"

Anger flashed in Arabano’s eyes, but at the same time, he seemed to realize just how much he was asking of the elf. At length, he nodded, though his eyes took on a hard edge. "I swear it upon the blood of my father," he answered.

Legolas glanced quickly at Gimli in case the dwarf had any qualms with this arrangement or wished to add anything. Gimli’s face had the look of one who was deep in contemplation and liked not the direction of his thoughts, but he shook his head slightly in response to the elf’s questioning gaze. "Then in one hour we shall meet you here," Legolas said.

"Until that time, honored ones," Arabano said. He gave them a quick bow and then turned, moving back toward the Gathering. Left alone in the dark streets, Legolas shot Gimli an expectant look, knowing that the dwarf had something on his mind.

"An interesting conversation," Gimli murmured as he glanced up and met the elf’s gaze. Folding his arms across his chest, his eyes took on a guarded expression and he studied Legolas closely. "Rarely have I heard you use that tone of voice, my friend. Is all well?"

"What think you? Does it seem that all is well?" Legolas asked.

"I did not refer to the Gathering, Legolas."

The elf grimaced and looked away, unsure of how to answer the dwarf. "As I said before, I know not what went through my mind. When I hesitated before Asbad, I felt as though I was looking after the best interests of Gondor and Rohan. Yet thinking back on it, I see that my actions were foolish. I do not know enough about this land to take such an independent stance. But at the time…" The elf trailed off and shook his head.

"It has been a strange night," Gimli murmured, keeping his dark eyes on Legolas. "Can you sense any…tampering with your thoughts?"

Legolas thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. "Nay, I think not. But I do sense darkness. In truth, Gimli, I think I felt this darkness before but passed it off as something that could be ignored."

"And you now think it should not be ignored?"

The elf sighed. "In truth, I know not what to think. But of this I am certain—my thoughts are my own. I feel whole and perhaps more like myself now than I did even earlier today. Mayhap the return of Ilúvatar’s song rendered me more impulsive than usual, I know not."

"We seem to have no lack of questions, but answers are scarce to be found," Gimli grumbled. "But so long as you seem yourself, I shall be content. Only tell me if something strikes you amiss. The men of this city are not to be trusted, and I fear what thoughts this Destroyer put into their minds."

"You are not alone in your misgivings," Legolas assured the dwarf, beginning to walk back toward the Gathering. Gimli fell into step beside him and the elf found a small measure of comfort in his companionship. "Together we shall overcome, of that I am certain," Legolas murmured.

"Then let us stay together," Gimli said. "I will share with you my thoughts, and you will share with me your thoughts."

"So be it," Legolas agreed, slowing slightly as they neared the doors. "Do you feel yourself ready to reenter the world of men’s politics, Master Dwarf?"

"No, but there seems to be little choice in the matter, Master Elf."

"And therein lies one of our many problems," Legolas sighed, steeling himself and crossing the threshold. "It seems our steps are already marked for us. We have not much choice in anything we do."

* * * *

"King Elessar, we must speak now."

Startled out of his conversation with Radarad of the Portu tribe, Aragorn looked up and blinked, confused by the combination of haste and anxiety that colored Eomer’s face. There was now perhaps an hour left before sunrise, and the Gathering was winding to a close for the night. Many of the other leaders had already departed, and Eomer had left earlier as well, having finished concluded all business that interested the Rohirrim. But now he was back, and it seemed that not all had gone as planned beyond the walls of the inner hall.

"Is aught wrong, King Eomer?" Aragorn asked, keeping his voice level at the same time that his mind began to click furiously.

"We must speak now," Eomer repeated, making no effort to explain himself and no move to leave.

Aragorn studied the horse-lord for a moment and then nodded slowly, alarmed by the gravity of Eomer’s eyes and the slight tension in his voice. "Perhaps we might continue this tomorrow night, Radarad," Aragorn said with an apologetic smile for the leader of Portu’s tribe. "It seems there is other business now that demands my attention."

"It is well past time for me to return to my own camp and order the needs of my own men," Radarad answered. "But I shall be happy to resume this talk at your convenience. Until tomorrow, King Elessar."

Aragorn inclined his head and Radarad bowed before moving away. Once Portu’s leader was a safe distance away, Eomer jerked his head to the side and swiftly moved to a doorway, glancing back once to make certain that Aragorn was with him. His alarm growing, the king of Gondor followed close behind as Eomer left the inner hall and then left the outer hall as well. Surmising that whatever Eomer had to say was something he did not want to say in the company of others, Aragorn kept silent, but his mind was awhirl with questions. _Surely Legolas and Gimli managed to stay out of trouble for the first night_ , he tried to reassure himself even as a sinking feeling of dread caught up with him.

After snaking through several twisting streets, Eomer finally stopped and looked around, making certain that they were not observed. Fighting with a growing impatience, Aragorn folded his arms and waited, hoping an explanation would be forthcoming soon.

"What do you know of religious traditions in Harad," Eomer finally asked, his eyes still darting about as they searched the surrounding streets for listening ears and watching eyes.

The king of Gondor blinked, not prepared for such a question. "Of what importance are religious traditions in Harad?" Aragorn asked.

"Apparently something happened tonight that might greatly affect our standing at this Gathering, at least according to Arabano," Eomer answered. "What can you tell me about a figure robed in red? Know you anything of this? Legolas and Gimli were rather vague on the details and I know not yet if I truly trust Arabano."

"A figure in red?" Aragorn fell silent and sent his mind racing over memories from his last visit to Harad. "The Destroyer," he said at length. "There are several religious traditions in Harad that deal with destruction or calamity, and many of them contain stories of a red robed figure known as the Destroyer. Occasionally one hears stories where he is actually in white robes, but the use of red robes is far more common. According to tradition, the Destroyer is the harbinger of death and destruction. He was believed to have appeared just prior to the fall of Umbar, and it is written that he appears whenever grave danger threatens Harad. Sauron would occasionally send someone dressed as the Destroyer if he wished to discipline a certain tribe." Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and he studied the horse-lord. "What brings you to ask about this?"

"He was seen at the Gathering."

Aragorn held completely still for a moment, not quite certain of what his reaction should be to this news. "When?" he eventually demanded.

"Several times," Eomer answered. "Legolas saw him first about an hour after all the seconds had retired from the official Gathering, but he fled the building ere any others could see him. Then Gimli caught sight of him in an alleyway."

"He didn’t confront anyone?" Aragorn asked.

"If he had confronted someone, what would it have meant?" Eomer responded, returning question for question.

"It would have depended upon the response of the one he confronted. Sauron more or less codified the laws and traditions regarding the Destroyer. Before Sauron’s reign, I think the Destroyer could appear for one person. Under Sauron, the Destroyer came to represent doom for whatever tribes were present when the Destroyer appeared."

"If the Destroyer was a symbol of doom for all, then why was it necessary to confront someone? Wouldn’t his appearance be sufficient?"

"Sauron played an interesting game with the tribes of Harad," Aragorn answered, harking back to the years he had spent among the Haradrim long before the War of the Ring. "If he was displeased with some of them, he would arrange a meeting of sorts and invite to this meeting all those who had roused his ire. At some point during the proceedings, the Destroyer would appear and confront one person. That person then made a decision that would affect the rest of his tribe. If he stepped toward the Destroyer, he was symbolizing his allegiance to Sauron, and that tribe was spared the wrath of Sauron’s armies, which were always waiting in the desert to descend upon the meeting once the warning had been given."

"I did not think Sauron was one to grant mercy," Eomer said, his voice skeptical.

"He was not, and this was not mercy. A tribe that allied with Sauron against the other tribes was seen as having lost its honor by other Haradrim and was usually hunted down and killed to the last man, woman, and child."

"Ah. Then I suppose that if a person stepped away from the Destroyer, their tribe would be killed along with the other tribes."

"Close," Aragorn said. "They would actually be captured and tortured first."

"Why would Sauron give any tribe the choice, though?" Eomer asked. "Why not simply kill all who attended the meeting?"

"To serve as an example to other tribes," Aragorn said. "The tribe to whom the choice was given would always be one of the more troublesome tribes. And to them was given a terrible choice: they could lose their honor and die at the hands of their brethren, or they could be pursued like cattle, caught, butchered, and then killed in unspeakable ways."

Eomer nodded, thinking this over. "An interesting tradition," he said at length. "But since Sauron used it on a practical level, would the Destroyer still have an impact today? Sauron is gone, after all."

"You would think the impact would be lessened, yet just the opposite is true," Aragorn said. "The legend of the Destroyer is one passed down from generation to generation, and forms one of the basic tenets of the Haradrim’s religion. Simply because Sauron used it does not mean the Haradrim no longer believe in it. And Sauron was wise enough that he did not use it excessively."

"Then we are faced with an interesting dilemma," Eomer said. "The Destroyer confronted Legolas."

Aragorn blinked and stared. "Why did you not say so?!"

"Because had I told you outright, I would have gathered no information from you," Eomer answered. "You are filled with secrets, Aragorn, and secrets are something we can ill afford at this time."

"You do not understand!" Aragorn hissed. "Without Sauron, the prophecies of plague, calamity, and war shall be foremost on the minds of the Haradrim. Did Legolas step toward the Destroyer or away from him?"

"Neither. He simply stood there."

Aragorn frowned. "He did nothing? You are certain?"

"Legolas and Gimli both confirm this."

"Have you been to our camp? Does it still stand?"

"Legolas has identified six different spies watching it from various locations, but no one has made any threatening move."

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his temples, wondering how the situation could have spiraled so far out of control without his even being aware that a situation existed. "Spies are normal enough for a Gathering," he finally said. "That is no great concern now. But how is it that Legolas took no steps? The Destroyer always waits until the confronted one moves."

"Apparently, Gimli arrived before aught could happen, and the Destroyer left, possibly fearing that his true identity would be revealed."

"And that is something we shall have to discover," Aragorn said. "Sauron is no more and the Destroyer of legend is said to be a messenger of the Valar, or the _Iluh_ , as the Haradrim call them."

"Arabano claims that this Destroyer is Asbad," Eomer said quietly.

Aragorn’s frustration was increasing exponentially, and he turned a rather dark glare on the king of Rohan. "Is there anything else concerning this night that you would care to tell me?"

Eomer cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, but there was almost a hint of amusement lurking within their depths. "The game is not so enjoyable when the tables are turned, is it?"

Feeling as though he was going to burst, Aragorn took a deep, calming breath and tried to take a mental step backwards. "It seems the two of us have many things to discussed that are not quite related to the Gathering," he said quietly when he trusted himself enough to speak.

"Indeed," Eomer murmured. "But now all the information is laid upon the table. Or rather, all the information that I could gather concerning the Destroyer that appeared this night. And I would ask to have your interpretation. What shall be the consequences? Legolas did not move. How shall the other tribes see this?"

"It could be seen in several different ways," Aragorn sighed. "But I judge that the most likely outcome will be uncertainty. Since Legolas did not react to the presence of the Destroyer, he neither joins him nor opposes him. Sauron refined the traditions and superstitions surrounding the Destroyer, but he did not provide for such an instance. As such, the Haradrim will be forced to hearken back to the tales they were told as children, and such tales are vague at best."

"But surely many will see that this Destroyer is but a man cloaked in red," Eomer pointed out.

"The ways of the Haradrim are not our ways," Aragorn sighed. "No sane Haradrim would risk impersonating the Destroyer. The dishonor of such an act might well splinter an entire tribe, even a tribe as powerful as Khurintu. And for this reason, Arabano will be unable to accuse Asbad. Such an accusation would seem ludicrous, for there is no apparent reason for Asbad to take such a risk. However, based on the information we have now, it seems that Asbad did, in fact, choose to impersonate the Destroyer. We must now unravel the reasoning behind this move, for the Khurintu is a tribe that weighs risk and gains. For a risk this large, they must plan to gain a great deal, and I do not think their gain shall also be a gain for us."

"Which is something that we have assumed from the beginning of this trip," Eomer sighed. "But what of Legolas? Prudence shies away from uncertainty. Will it be safe for Legolas to continue to participate in the Gathering?"

"So long as he does not relax his guard, I believe he shall be safe," Aragorn said slowly, his mind racing as he spoke. "And so long as Gimli is with him, together they should be able to thwart any threat. But as for participating in the Gathering…I think it will be necessary for him to be seen around the hall. It will show the Haradrim that Gondor does not fear the repercussions of their superstition. But we must also be mindful, for many might believe that our presence now symbolizes the beginning of the end for Harad. Legolas must be visible, but he must not be conspicuous. And I would hesitate to ask him to negotiate anything. I fear that task now falls upon the shoulders of Imhran and Gimli. The other delegates shall be wary of him, for they know not if calamity shall fall upon them for their association with one singled out by the Destroyer." Aragorn grimaced and shook his head. "I suppose that hopes for a smooth night were overly optimistic."

"This trip into Harad has been everything but what we expected," Eomer agreed quietly. "Though I fear I cannot say exactly what we expected."

"As is the case with most journeys, or so I have learned," Aragorn murmured. "But come. Since you have spoken with Legolas and Gimli, tell me if aught else happened this night that concerns Gondor and Rohan."

"As for other things of note, my riders have managed to construct a map of the layouts of the tribes both within and without the city’s walls," Eomer answered, a slight touch of pride entering his voice. "They paid special attention to Khurintu, but they found no sign of Asbad. If Arabano is correct, it is because Asbad was within the city playing the part of the Destroyer. The offer of an alliance from the Lotessa tribe is now an official one, but I gather there was something in the way of a misunderstanding ere Legolas, Gimli, and Arabano could agree upon that. But none of them are willing to speak of it, so I can give you nothing more concerning that. Whatever happened, Legolas and Gimli have assured me that they have taken care of it, and I suppose we shall have to trust them in this. They do not seem inclined to be forthcoming in the foreseeable future. And finally we have now a wealth of information concerning Khurintu’s latest activities, thanks to Arabano."

"Have you heard all that Gimli and Legolas have to tell on the subject of Khurintu?" Aragorn asked.

"Only in brief, for I was anxious to speak to you regarding the Destroyer."

"Then let us return to camp and here what Legolas and Gimli have to tell. I would learn what news they can tell us regarding Khurintu as well as their version of the events surrounding the encounter with Harad’s legendary figure of doom." The king of Gondor paused then, glancing at Eomer before continuing. "And I would also put this game of words behind us. We are equals here, Eomer. My apologies if my actions have not reflected that. I fear that for part of the trip I was not entirely myself, yet for this problem to emerge, there must be roots."

Eomer smiled mirthlessly and shook his head. "Nay, it is I who must apologize to you, Aragorn. A bitter mood has been upon me of late, and I sought only to assuage my pride. Think not that I hold aught against you, for I would not have played a game of words with you had the situation required swift action. I have said unto you before, Aragorn, that in all things, you are my liege lord. Yet even so, Rohan is its own kingdom, and I would see it respected for that."

"As would I," Aragorn agreed. "And I see there is much to discuss still, but let us agree upon this now: we are brothers-in-arms, you and I, and as such, we shall not play these petty games. My knowledge is yours, and yours is mine. And nothing shall sunder the alliance between our two kingdoms, for ours is a bond forged in blood and hardened by the fires of war. We cannot be divided."

"It shall be as you say," Eomer promised, his eyes flashing. "As one we drew swords at Helm’s Deep, and I vow this night that Rohan shall ever be one with Gondor."

"And I echo this vow," Aragorn said, his voice carrying a quiet but firm conviction. "And may the wrath of the Valar fall swiftly upon any who seek to sunder us again."

* * * *

A mistake had been made.

Dashnir couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the feel of the Gathering was not what it should have been. There should have been far more suspicion and far more fear in the air. As he left the building, he noted clusters of men talking and their glances were furtive, but there was not really a sense of panic or coming calamity. And had all gone according to plan, there would have been.

Drawing his desert scarves up around his face to protect against the early morning breezes that could swirl sand up into small dust storms, Dashnir made his way toward the eastern gates of Haradhur, intent on seeking out his camp and demanding answers of his leader. He had played his own part well. He had been allowed to speak in the official Gathering where only tribal heads were allowed. He had challenged the will of the powerful tribes and won. Khurintu had been given the edge, and with this edge, it would obtain salvation for the Haradrim and vengeance for the Black Númenóreans. But even though all had gone well within the inner circle, something had apparently gone awry in the outer halls. And Dashnir intended to discover what that something was.

It was a rather significant walk from Haradhur’s eastern gate to the Khurintu camp, which was no accident but was still rather inconvenient at the moment. The moment for which they had waited and planned was almost upon them, and Dashnir’s impatience was difficult to contain. Nevertheless, he had been instructed by the best that Sauron had to offer, and he was not about to let his temper escape his control. Thus, he kept his expression casual, nodding slightly to some of the Haradrim he passed on his way to his own camp and making certain that his walk was slow and deliberate. Appearances still had to be maintained for at least one more day.

A small eternity later, Dashnir entered his own camp. He allowed his pace to quicken since he was now in the company of brethren who were just as anxious as he was. Returning the sentries’ salutes as he passed, he made his way unerringly toward the tent where Asbad spent the day. Not waiting for the guard on duty to pull aside the tent flap and announce him, Dashnir did it himself and quickly entered.

"You are wondering what happened."

Dashnir was brought up short, not quite expecting Asbad to take the lead in this conversation. "It is rather quiet in Haradhur," he confessed at length, speaking to Asbad’s back as the tribal leader poured over a map of Haradhur and the positions of the various camps. "I had expected more of an uproar. Has there been a change of plans?"

"Nay, but the next move shall require more subtlety than originally planned. I have sent for Radarad. His role shall have to be expanded."

"Though we control Portu, we cannot press them much further," Dashnir warned. "Radarad already chafes under our commands, and should he grow bold enough, I do not think he would hesitated to ask the Lotessa tribe for aid in freeing his people."

"Perhaps, but if he does not act by the end of the night, he will be unable to act at all." A silence fell and Asbad went back to studying his map, apparently feeling that the discussion had ended.

Dashnir did not share that view. He wanted answers. "Honored one, if it is not my place to know, I shall abide by your wisdom, yet I feel that in my position as acting head of this tribe at the Gathering, I ought to be informed as to what—"

"As to why Haradhur is not yet in a state of extreme panic," Asbad finished with a sigh. He shook his head and turned away from the map. "Nay, your question is a good one, but I fear that I do not quite understand the answer myself."

"Then perhaps you might share with me what happened this night, and perhaps in the sharing we shall find better answers."

"Perhaps," Asbad murmured, sounding less than confident. If Dashnir had not known better, he would have said that his leader was puzzled. "I was moving to confront the elf and the dwarf as we had planned," he began. "But the elf saw me ere I could slip into the hall. He did not recognize me, but I did have one scarf down so as to better see and the elf directed Arabano’s attention toward me."

Only a sharp intake of breath indicated Dashnir’s alarm, but his entire mind was shaking at the possible implications of this. The element of the Destroyer was among the more dangerous parts of the plan, and was one of the points at which the entire scheme could unravel. "Did he recognize you, do you think?"

"I believe so, but I think he was the only one to do so. And alone, without reliable witnesses, I do not think Arabano will be foolish enough to bring this matter before the Gathering. He has no authority to speak among the tribal heads, and it is well known that no love is lost between our tribe and the Lotessa tribe. Budari proved that well enough this night, or so my sources tell me."

"Nay, Budari was not pleased when Aulit allowed me to stay among the leaders," Dashnir remembered with a grim smile. "But we stray from the topic, honored one. What happened after Arabano saw you?"

"I left, of course, for I could not chance that any others recognize me. And then I returned when I deemed it safe. This time, I was able to actually confront the elf."

"And how did he move?" Dashnir asked.

"The elf did not move."

Dashnir blinked. "He did not move?"

"Nay, and herein lies our problem. How shall such a thing be interpreted by the other tribes? For until we know this, we cannot proceed."

"But we must act tonight!" Dashnir protested. "The plans are set and those meeting us at the rendezvous will already be traveling."

"I have not forgotten," Asbad said with a warning gleam in his eye. "And for this reason we shall now call upon the services of Radarad. Through his riders, who are renowned for gossip and rumors, we shall dictate exactly how the elf’s inaction should be interpreted."

"If he should come to know that we were behind the Destroyer—"

"He will not know. He will know only that the Khurintu tribe has archived a great store of knowledge regarding the Destroyer, and using the legends passed down among us, we shall interpret the role of the Destroyer at this Gathering."

"I pray Eru that you are correct," Dashnir said with a worried shake of his head. "We have gone too far and accomplished too much to falter now."

"Vengeance shall be ours, of that have no doubt," Asbad promised, his voice quiet and firm. "In the meantime, we must alter our strategy somewhat. Think you that the tribal heads are prepared to deal with another breach in protocol?"

"They will already be wary, but if such a breach is required, I shall see that it works," Dashnir vowed.

"Good. And how long do you think you can hold the floor if your speech happens to be little more than a series of rants and accusations?"

"It would depend upon the nature of such rants and accusations."

Asbad nodded and sighed slightly. "Then I wish you to stay and observe Radarad as I inform him of his new obligations. And afterward, we shall plan your speech to the delegates. Eru willing, all things shall be prepared for tonight. Fear not, Dashnir," he said with a smile that would have impressed Sauron. "Our long years of planning shall now bear the fruits of our labors. Tonight will mark the beginning of the end for Gondor and the heirs of Elendil."

"Never have you failed this tribe or our people," Dashnir said, feeling hope begin to rise again within his soul. "And in you I place my trust, honored one. Forgive me for doubting."

"I, too, harbor doubts," Asbad answered. "But they are groundless and are but the whisperings of prudence. Together we shall triumph, my friend. Together, all things are possible."


	22. Ere the Bough Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I wanted to answer a question that has popped up in several of the reviews. The Destroyer of Harad and all the legends surrounding him have absolutely no basis in canon. They are my own invention, so apologies to Tolkien. I have no idea what he would think of all this. Likewise, the Gathering, the arrangements of the tribes, the anarchic political system theyve chosen to employ, and just about everything else in Harad is also original and has no link to any of Tolkiens books.

__

To help keep names straight in this chapter (and there is some name-dropping) I’ve compiled yet another who’s who list at the end, this time including ALL the characters who will play an influential role (including canon characters). And I’ve also listed the more important tribes that we’ll run into. I figured if I was going to be thorough, I might as well be REALLY thorough. So if you ever get confused, jump to the end and refresh the memory!

****

The sun was moments away from making an appearance, and already silence had fallen over the dusty streets of Haradhur. The venders who had wandered about harking their wares were packed and gone. A few souls still lingered in the silence, but their business kept them hidden in alleys and shadows where other eyes might not see. It was perhaps one of the most dangerous times to be out and about in Haradhur, yet at the moment, the leader of the Lotessa tribe was braving the risk of assassination and boldly walking down one of the main streets toward the area where the Gartabo tribe was located.

Budari was not a foolish man, and he knew the risks he was taking. But he was also a trained warrior with a keen mind, able to weigh the consequences of inaction against the dangers of action and then move accordingly. And if the events of the past night dictated that he walk among thieves, spies, and murderers, then so be it. During his lifetime, he had galloped his horse across sand slippery with blood, and he had defied the spies of Sauron, killing them ere they could report back to their master. Risk was not a foreign concept to Budari and his tribe, and if said risk was necessary, then that was enough for him.

__

What is your game, Asbad? He shook his head as he walked, pondering over what Arabano, his second-in-command, had reported. Budari had met Asbad several times before, and he knew the man to be a cunning strategist and a dangerous enemy. But he could see no reason for the leader of Khurintu to impersonate the Destroyer. If such a thing were to be discovered and made known, then all of Khurintu would be shamed and most likely ostracized by the other tribes. Harad’s religions and traditions were not things taken likely, and imitating the harbinger of doom was not a casual offense. Yet if what Arabano reported was true—and Budari trusted Arabano as much as any man could trust another in Harad—Asbad had not only assumed the guise of a herald of the _Iluh_ but had also confronted the elf from Gondor. _By all the water of the hidden lakes, Asbad, what do you hope to gain by this?_

Budari liked to feel that things were under control. He had grown up in a tribe of warriors, he had worked his way to the top, eventually becoming the tribal head, and he had quietly opposed the growing strength of the Khurintu tribe for years. This background had taught Budari that, if nothing else, things needed to be controlled. Even if Lotessa was not the tribe doing the controlling, there had to be some type of balance and some form of system. It was partly for this reason that Budari had agreed that the Gartabo tribe should head the Gathering for this year. Though not a tribe of warriors, Gartabo was respected for its prosperity and its control of several key hidden lakes, thus giving it its agricultural basis. Budari had been pressing for a stronger ally to officiate at the Gathering, but at least under Gartabo, there was a feel of order. Or rather, that was what had been anticipated. But at the moment, it felt that the situation was spiraling out of control, and Budari intended to see that it spiraled no further.

Reaching the Gartabo encampment and stopping when the sentries commanded, Budari waited impatiently even as his inner clock ticked off the minutes until the sun rose. Lotessa’s camp was located far outside Haradhur’s western gate, and it would be a very warm walk back if he could not conclude his meeting with Aulit quickly. Unfortunately, that prospect seemed optimistic at best, for Aulit was a very methodical man and liked to discuss things until every facet of every detail had been thoroughly examined. It seemed to be a required trait for leaders of the Gartabo tribe and had served them well in business dealings, but when working against the clock in the face of intrigue and betrayal, it was a weakness they could ill afford.

But at the moment, Budari knew not what else could be done. Lotessa could not directly act against Khurintu, for the rivalry between the two tribes, though it had never come to an open confrontation, was well known by all at the Gathering. Any accusation Lotessa made would be taken as an attempt to discredit Khurintu. Thus, actions by Lotessa would have to be taken by proxy, and since Gartabo presided at the Gathering, they seemed like the place to start.

A sentry now approached Budari and informed him that Aulit would be pleased to see him. Budari seriously doubted that, but he smoothed his face into a placid expression and inclined his head as a show of gratitude. Following the guard past the outer tents, Budari was soon led into the leader’s tent. Aulit looked up upon his entrance and waved several attendants away, quietly telling them that he would summon them one hour before sunset. Budari endured all this with what he hoped was a patient expression, but he couldn’t be certain as he felt anything but patient.

"You honor me with your presence, Budari," Aulit began, gesturing toward a stack of rugs.

"And you honor me by accepting me into your camp," Budari replied, taking a seat and waiting for Aulit to do likewise. "I have things I wish to discuss with you."

"And I have things I would discuss with you," Aulit said. "This Gathering has begun most curiously. I have already spoken with several leaders, all of whom voiced concerns over the appearance of the Destroyer. He has not been seen since the fall of Mordor. Have you any insight into this thing, Budari?"

"Perhaps, yet I would hold my peace in this matter for a while longer. It would be unwise to spread rumors ere I had the facts to back them. But the Destroyer is related to an area that warrants your attention, Aulit, and I would speak of it if I may."

"Say on."

"As you know, this Gathering has been the scene of several odd occurrences, and it is but one night into the negotiations. We have two foreign powers sitting with us within the inner hall, we have a second acting for his leader, we have an elf and a dwarf in our midst, and we have seen the reappearance of the Destroyer. All in all, this past night has been filled with surprises, and due to these surprises, I propose that we reinstate tradition."

"And what tradition would that be?" Aulit asked, his glance casual but his voice hard.

"Evict Dashnir from the council. Given the circumstances we face, we cannot have a second among the leaders. Aside from being a violation of sacred custom, it is dangerous."

Aulit was quiet for a while, his dark eyes studying Budari, and then he shrugged, leaning back and reaching for a water skin. "I fear I do not follow your reasoning. Surely, given the circumstances we face, someone must represent Khurintu. They are perhaps the most powerful tribe in the north. Would it not be foolish to continue in our proceedings without their counsel?"

"Dashnir has not the authority to speak for the entire tribe. He is but a pawn of Asbad, and if Asbad cares not to honor us with his presence, then we are more than justified in moving forward without the input of Khurintu."

"And what if Khurintu object to things we decide during the course of the Gathering? They have the power to make their grievances known and to ensure that they are properly redressed. If we allow Dashnir to speak of Khurintu and policies go ill, Khurintu will have no one to blame save for their second. They cannot accuse us for we included a representative of Khurintu in our counsels."

"But the tribal heads cannot simply overlook the fact that Asbad has blatantly ignored almost every tradition and protocol surrounding the Gathering by refusing to come himself and sending another to take his place. This cannot be forgotten!"

"We shall remind Asbad of it when he assumes his rightful place," Aulit answered.

"You will take no other actions?!" Budari demanded, feeling rage creep over him. "You would allow this insult to go unpunished?!"

"There are repercussions to it," Aulit said, his voice hardening in the face of Budari’s anger. "And I deem these repercussions to be sufficient. Certainly Khurintu has made no friends at this Gathering, for all know of their disregard for tradition. And over time, this shall tell on their ability to function as a tribe. Though we each live alone in the desert, we are, all of us, ultimately dependent upon one another. Khurintu is no exception to this."

"I think you err greatly, Aulit," Budari warned. "Is it not obvious to you that Khurintu plans something from this?"

"Asbad is ambitious, Budari, I will concede that much. But are you certain that you speak for the good of the Gathering? Or do you speak from the fears of the Lotessa tribe regarding a longtime rival?"

"Tribes do not break with tradition on a whim," Budari argued, ignoring the implication that this was a matter of rivalry rather than welfare.

"Nay, they do not, but I think you overestimate the abilities of the Khurintu tribe," Aulit answered. "They are to be feared and watched, of that there can be no doubt. But they lack the power to enforce their will in Harad."

"Then you will not act," Budari said, his tone soft and dark.

"At this time, there is no reason to justify any action."

"If that is your belief, then pray to the _Iluh_ that it is correct. For if not, I will personally see that your blood stains the sand," Budari promised, getting up and bowing slightly. "A good rest to you, Aulit. May it bring you peace, for I fear there will be no peace tonight."

* * * *

"To begin with, Arabano confirmed what we already suspected," Legolas said, his voice soft in the silence of the morning as the light of the rising sun filtered through the heavy canvas of the large tent. "Asbad and Dashnir are both descendents of Black Númenóreans, as are many members of the Khurintu tribe. And they both received training from some of Sauron’s top lieutenants. There are also rumors among Khurintu’s lesser warriors that Asbad is closely related to he who was known as the Mouth of Sauron and learned much from his tutelage."

"That gives us a rather dangerous opponent," Eomer observed heavily. "More so than we originally believed."

"I take it that this is not common knowledge in the desert?" Aragorn questioned.

"Nay, but because of its warrior tradition, Lotessa had several contacts with Mordor, and through these contacts, they learned the heritage of members of the Khurintu tribe," Legolas answered.

"At least we are aware of this threat before it is upon us," Gimli muttered with something that might have been a shudder. He remembered all too well their last encounter with the Mouth of Sauron, and the outcome of that had not been pleasant. There were still times when he caught echoes of that horror in Legolas’s eyes.

"The threat is already upon us," Aragorn pointed out, "and has acted several times. The attack at Lake Supt was no accident. And then there was Dol Amroth. I told you a few days ago that Imrahil attempted to drug Dashnir, but it was Mohart who fell to it. I do not believe that to be accidental, either."

Gimli grimaced and sighed. "Perhaps not. Still, I think we are better prepared this time. And mayhap the enemy is not."

"Mayhap," Aragorn allowed, though to the dwarf’s ears, he did not sound confident. "What else did you learn?"

"The Lotessa tribe has been following the movements of Khurintu for some time, and during the past few years, they have noticed something rather odd," Gimli answered. "They have spread themselves out at the same time that they have begun to consolidate their strength. Khurintu contingents can be found in every corner of the northern desert, but these contingents are small in size. They are only large enough to stave off any threats to themselves. The bulk of the Khurintu tribe has been congregating at a hidden lake to the north east."

"Hajim," Aragorn murmured. "Lake Hajim has been the traditional stronghold of Khurintu."

"Arabano says that he and his tribe have watched these movements closely, and they have apparently become more pronounced over the last two months," Legolas added.

"The Rohirrim have very similar practices when preparing for a confrontation of some type," Eomer mused. "We withdraw into such places as Dunharrow, Edoras, and Helm’s Deep, but we also dispatch teams of riders to cover as much ground as possible. Khurintu is doing the same, or so I deem. They are either preparing to be attacked, or they are preparing to do the attacking."

"Such was Arabano’s conclusion," Gimli said with a heavy sigh, "and such was my conclusion as well. The dwarves have comparable contingency plans in the event of an attack, though we are not as concerned with seeing that scouts are plentiful."

"In the desert, scouts would be more important," Aragorn said. "A stronghold here is not a stronghold according to terminology of the north. There are very few cities, even fewer fortresses, and for the most part, a stronghold is any area where the bulk of your troops are gathered. In order to protect this, spies and scouts are of the utmost importance."

"Are there still spies surrounding our camp?" Eomer asked, directing his attention to Legolas.

"I have not heard them recently, but that does not mean they have disappeared," the elf answered with a shrug.

"And once again, the elves say both yes and no," Gimli mumbled with a scowl for Legolas. "If you cannot hear them, then they are most likely taking refuge within the buildings."

"If a man stands perfectly still and quiets his breathing, I am unable to tell where he is," Legolas said. "That is obviously not the case for a dwarf, who wears so much armor he cannot help but make noise in addition to breathing loud enough to wake the Ents."

"Peace," Aragorn broke in before Gimli could come back with a rejoinder to that. "Was there aught else that you learned?"

"Much we knew already," Gimli said, glaring at the elf and vowing to follow up on that scorpion idea he’d had during the Gathering. "Arabano did say that the leadership of the Khurintu tribe was in disarray immediately following Sauron’s fall, but when Asbad came to power, he put down all rivals and elevated Dashnir to the level of second-in-command. There has been very little internal strife within the tribe since that time."

"Dashnir we know to be a powerful man who does not hesitate in using his talent for intimidation," Eomer said. "But what do we know of Asbad? We have yet to meet him, though rumors certainly precede the man."

"I met Asbad once, though he knew not who I was," Aragorn said quietly. "It was long before the War of the Ring, and I walked then under a different name. But during the time of the Gathering, I attended and learned all that I could of the ways of the Haradrim. This was when I encountered Asbad."

"What did you think of him?" Gimli asked.

"He was a leading member of Khurintu’s war council at the time, and I was far beneath his notice so we did not speak much. But this gave me a better chance to observe him, and I can tell you that much of what Dashnir learned, he learned from Asbad. The two are kin, a fact that Arabano has now confirmed for us, and they are tight in their dealings and strategy. Dashnir is completely loyal to Asbad, and in return, Asbad trusts Dashnir implicitly. They shall bear careful watching."

"And they are men of foresight and planning," Legolas said. "No doubt their next move is prepared, and all possible contingencies have been addressed."

"You are probably right, which means that we must create plans of our own to counter theirs," Aragorn said.

"Which shall be what?" Gimli asked.

"To begin with, we must downplay the threat of the Destroyer," Aragorn said, his eyes turning to Legolas. "You were confronted, and I fear that many eyes shall now be upon you. The first sign of weakness may be taken as a herald of greater doom and destruction."

"What do you counsel?" Legolas asked. "For I deem that my role as your second has now ended, yet it is clear that I cannot disappear until the conclusion of the Gathering. Such an action would only strengthen the fears that the Destroyer did foretell calamity."

"I would advise that you make yourself seen tonight," Aragorn said. "Keep company with Gimli and aid him in dealings that are charged him by Eomer, but also keep your distance. Imhran shall take over your duties as second to Gondor, though I still hold you to that title."

"It shall be as you counsel," Legolas said.

"Why was I not consulted in this?" Gimli protested, shooting a sidelong gaze at the elf. "I have no wish to walk about with the harbinger of doom."

Legolas rolled his eyes and murmured something about dank cave air being bad for one’s mind, but his words were too soft for Gimli to make them all out. In retaliation, the dwarf readied himself to say something about muttering elves and heralds of apocalyptic catastrophe, but Aragorn seemed to sense the impending debate and interrupted them both.

"Gimli, you must needs take extra care this night. Eyes shall be upon you as well, for you were the one who interrupted the Destroyer. Together, I have faith that you and Legolas can surmount any threat, but exercise great caution. These are not hapless mountain goblins but men of cunning political artifice."

"Nor are we hapless mountain goblins," Gimli answered. "Or rather, one of us is not, and that one shall make certain that the other avoids trouble."

"And you have my word on that, my liege," Legolas added with a slight smile. "I shall return the short, hapless mountain goblin safely to his caves in Rohan."

In Gimli’s mind, the elf had gotten away with far too much already, and it was high time for a moment of vengeance. But once again, Aragorn interceded before the dwarf could say aught. "One alone cannot prevail," the king said, his voice firm and his eyes grave. "I foresee that both shall be needed, though for what I cannot say."

Gimli frowned, taken aback by the intensity of Aragorn’s gaze. He had seen his mortal friend in many moods, but this was a rare one. Something dark was brewing, and Aragorn had been treated to a bit of what that something was. But apparently he still had no clear picture of the exact nature of the threat they faced, save that it was indeed a grave threat and they would do well to beware.

"Might I suggest we rest for the day?" Eomer said, his voice breaking through a tense silence. "We shall be able to review all before the Gathering as well as the details of potential arrangements regarding trade and commerce. But I feel the need for sleep now, and I fear that if I do not hearken to this warning, I shall collapse where I sit."

"Then let us do as you counsel and rest," Aragorn said. "But we must rise early and set in order the business of the coming night. Radarad of Portu has broached the idea of a trade in stud horses, and I am interested in the sincerity of his proposal."

"We will investigate," Gimli promised, feeling sleep creep over him as well and fighting down a yawn with effort. "But not now, for I feel as Eomer does."

"And a dwarf without sleep is a dwarf to avoid," Legolas added, a wry smile gracing his fair face. He tumbled out of the way of Gimli’s swinging arm and laughed. "Peace, my friend, for I also seek rest."

"Then I bid you a good day and implore you to actually use this time for sleep and not for combat," Aragorn said with a sidelong look at elf and dwarf. "Gimli shall not be the only one that must be avoided if there is not peace and quiet in this tent today."

* * * *

Arabano should have been sleeping. There were two hours yet before sunset and those two hours were accounted priceless, particularly during the Gathering. But Arabano’s mind was in turmoil and he could not lie still. At first, more to distract himself than for any other reason, he had thoroughly gone over some maps made by Lotessa’s scouts. They showed the position of each tribe and encampment both within and without Haradhur as well as the approximate size and strength of each group. He had seen these documents before, of course, but it was always good to cement them in one’s mind a second time.

Unfortunately, that had not lasted long enough, and Arabano eventually went in search of something else to do. Deciding upon a rather bold course of action, he had decided to mingle with the traders and spies who frequented the buildings of Haradhur where deep wells drove away some of the afternoon heat. Wrapping himself firmly in desert scarves as a means of protection from the blinding sun, Arabano set out. One hand he kept near his sword, while the other hovered above the hilt of his knife. It never hurt to be prepared in Haradhur, and the endless mazes of buildings were always a hazard to walk.

But naught befell Arabano, and he soon entered the relative cool of Haradhur’s shadier residencies. Staying in the shadows, he took a moment to gather his bearings and allow his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. He quickly discovered that the connected buildings were unusually crowded, and his sharp eyes soon caught the colors and symbols of almost every single tribe. Murmurs and whispers filled the rooms, and a strange feeling of dread settled upon Arabano. Something about this was not right. Hugging the wall, Arabano sidled past several groups of Haradrim, trying to surreptitiously listen to the conversations and learn what preoccupied the mind of so many men this day. He had a hunch that most of the talk centered around the Destroyer, but he wasn’t willing to turn that hunch into a base assumption until he learned more.

"If you seek answers, Arabano, then perhaps I can provide them."

Arabano had known someone was behind him. As a prominent warrior in a powerful tribe, he had learned long ago to take careful stock of his surroundings, especially in areas where assassins were known to prowl. But he had not expected his follower to speak. Rather, he had suspected him to be a spy, and a spy was harmless enough for what Arabano intended to do. Thus it was with no small amount of surprise that Arabano turned, frowning when he recognized his stalker.

"And what answers have you, Fastahn, that I do not possess?" he asked. There was no love lost between the Soltari tribe and the Lotessa tribe. While they were not exactly at odds with one another, they were not on cordial terms. Of course, Soltari was really not on good terms with any of the warrior tribes, including Khurintu, and this did make up for their obstinate stubbornness. Somewhat.

"Think not that Soltari takes no note of political developments, even though we shun from the use of the sword. A rather crude way to enforce one’s will, I should think, but unfortunately our view is not shared by many in the desert."

"Come to the point, Fastahn," Arabano said, his voice quiet and cold. Since he and Fastahn had both been a part of the delegation escorting Gondor and Rohan to Haradhur, Arabano had learned to tolerate Fastahn. But that did not mean he enjoyed his company.

"You know, of course, that the Destroyer was seen last night."

"One would be stupid to not know of it."

"I mean not offense, Arabano," Fastahn said, his voice silky. "But perhaps you are not aware of how the tribes here at the Gathering have interpreted the Destroyer’s appearance. It is most interesting."

"The elf did not move," Arabano pointed out. "There can be no certain interpretation."

"Surely a man of your political training knows better than that. Such a bold act must be interpreted, even without certainty. Unfortunately, I do not believe the interpretation is going your way."

"Whatever the interpretation, I do not see how it should affect the Lotessa tribe."

"Don’t you? You have allied yourself with Gondor and Rohan. Yes, it is a quiet alliance," Fastahn said, smiling at the ill-concealed surprise on Arabano’s face. "But even so, it is an alliance and you are now bound to honor it. But tell me, is your tribe prepared to accept exile for the sake of foreigners?"

"What do you know, Fastahn? And do not try my patience, for I grow weary of your words."

"I know that Radarad of the Portu tribe held conference in the Khurintu tribe early this morning. And since then, his riders have been seen in almost every area of Haradhur, spreading rumors and news of what the Destroyer meant when he fled before the elf and dwarf. It is a signal to all of Harad, or so they say. The elf and dwarf bring danger; even the Destroyer could not contend with them. Gondor and Rohan are the beginning of the end. The rumors say that both elf and dwarf are an abomination and an affront to the _Iluh_. Should we allow them into our society and into this Gathering, we bring upon us our own doom."

For a long time, Arabano was speechless. He kept his face composed and his eyes blank, but his mind was racing. _Eru take Portu! We should have been faster to act, but any rumor we spread as a counter will be but background noise to this interpretation._ The second of Lotessa shook his head, wondering what Portu had to gain. _This happened in the desert as well_ , he remembered. _It was Portu’s raiders who attacked us at Lake Supt, and I will empty my water skin onto the sand before I believe that Dashnir and Garat knew nothing of it. But why does Portu do their will? It makes no sense! They are not a tribe to willingly seek out danger, yet time and again, at the bidding of Warra or Khurintu, they have done just that._

"I see that this is news to you," Fastahn said, breaking the silence that had descended.

"Why are you telling me this?" Arabano demanded, still running over the implications.

"Because we see Khurintu’s hand behind these happenings, and we seek to find a balance against their power," Fastahn answered with a slight shrug. "We are unable to oppose them by force, though, and thus, we seek a proxy. Because of your long-standing rivalry with them, the Lotessa tribe seemed a likely candidate. More than that, you are a powerful tribe with the ability to succeed should you stand against Khurintu."

"To stand, we could use more aid and less maneuvering," Arabano said. "By sharing this information, you have only set us in Khurintu’s way. But their treachery runs deeper than you know, and it may be possible that these new developments shall render us helpless."

"The Soltari tribe knows of their treachery," Fastahn said, his voice dropping to a whisper so quiet it was difficult for Arabano to hear him. "We know the true identity of the Destroyer. You were not the only one to see Asbad beneath the red robes. But I fear that our two tribes are very much alone in this knowledge."

Arabano decided that the day could not possibly become more confusing or frustrating. "If you know this, then you must speak of it!" he exclaimed. "My tribe can say nothing because of our rivalry with Khurintu. But if you were to speak and accuse Asbad of impersonating one of Harad’s most prominent religious figures, then—"

"Then we should set ourselves directly in Khurintu’s war path," Fastahn interrupted. "That we cannot do. We have neither the power nor the desire. I fear the secret of the Destroyer shall remain as such—a secret."

"You would not need to confront Khurintu openly," Arabano reasoned, struggling desperately to control his growing rage. "If you could but inform Aulit of this and convince him to evict Dashnir from the council, then perhaps that would be enough."

"We would still be revealing too much," Fastahn said. "And we wish to maintain our neutral position. Nay, Arabano, I fear that you and Lotessa are very much alone in this. We have done what we could to provide you with information, and now we must step aside and allow the warriors to play."

"If Khurintu is successful, you may rue the fact that you did not aid us," Arabano growled. "And if Lotessa is successful, you may rue it as well."

Fastahn smiled. "Perhaps. Fare you well, now, honored one. If Soltari discovers more information that could be of use to you, we shall impart it. But until then, may all your wanderings find water." And with that, Fastahn bowed and turned away, moving through clusters of men and eventually disappearing from sight.

As for Arabano, he tarried for quite some time within the buildings, leaving only when the sun began to near the horizon. All that he heard after Fastahn’s departure only served to validate Soltari’s claims, and Arabano was becoming increasingly concerned. Portu’s rumors that the elf and dwarf represented death to all of Harad were becoming firmly entrenched, and the one time he had stepped forward to counter that argument, he had been ignored as though his words were all foolishness.

__

This is unlike them, Arabano groaned, feeling the beginnings of a large headache. The Khurintu tribe was moving faster than it had ever moved before, and Arabano doubted not that something fell was planned. But he was still lost as to what they intended, and until he learned more, his hands were tired. With a weary sigh, he started back for his camp. He had much to tell Budari, for the situation had just become far more complex.

* * * *

Imrahil’s elven heritage had gifted the prince with some rather finicky traits. While not obsessed with his appearance, he did go to more effort than was usual in maintaining himself, and cleanliness was of particular importance to him. Unfortunately, the desert cared not for these desires, and laden with sweat, Imrahil cursed his ancestry, wondering why he had inherited the needs and instincts of an elf but not the physical abilities to satisfy these things. He was very much a mortal man, and his ties to elven bloodlines did nothing to ease his discomfort in Harad’s extreme heat.

On top of that, Imrahil’s sleep had been troubled by dark dreams again. Some instinct within him warned that fell acts were almost upon Gondor and Rohan. Dark deeds went forth this night, but Imrahil was still three night rides away from Haradhur. He had no way of warning his king, no way of coming to his assistance, and no way of easing his own conscience, which insisted that he had delayed for far too long.

Thus, it was no surprise that Imrahil woke in a rather foul mood. He ate his supper in silence, and his countenance discouraged any questions. The breaking of camp was an unusually somber affair and one in which Imrahil did not take part, which was rather strange as he was accustomed to assisting his men. But tonight, other things were upon his mind and, he stood silent near the edge of Lake Supt looking south, his gray eyes taking in the vastness of desert sand and growing hard with what he saw.

"Honored one, the men are almost ready to depart."

Mohart’s rather tentative voice broke through the layers of concentration that had shielded Imrahil from unwanted intrusions. None of his men would have dared interrupt the prince during one of his sessions of deep meditation, but Mohart was ignorant and as Imrahil was drawn back to himself, he decided to forgive the man outright. He knew no better. Besides that, Mohart was correct. The men were almost ready to depart, and it was time to start the night’s journey.

"If I may, honored one, you seem troubled."

Now Mohart was beginning to push his luck. Imrahil was not one to volunteer information, particularly when he was uncertain about it. And by now, Mohart should have learned this. "We are all troubled," the prince answered, his voice curt and final.

"But your troubles seem to have grown since this morning when you retired for the day," Mohart pointed out, apparently oblivious of the boundaries he was crossing.

Imrahil’s eyes flashed, and he seemed to take on an air of elven nobility as he turned to face Mohart directly. "Have they?" And without waiting for a response, Imrahil swung around and called for his horse. The animal came on command and he mounted swiftly. "Knights of the Swan, again we shall ride hard. Pace your steeds, but pace them wisely. We can afford to lose no time."

The prince’s men were swift to respond, and soon every knight was in the saddle and waiting for the command to move out. The sun was inexorably closing upon the horizon, and the temperatures were already beginning to drop. And as the shadows began to grow upon the desert, Imrahil raised his hand high and called aloud. A terrible yell chorused from the throats of his men in response, and together they once again took up the journey. The silver swan flashed bold in the desert that night, and a warlike singing could be heard across the vast plains.

But for all the loyal demonstrations of his men, Imrahil remained gravely troubled. Tonight was the night when all things would come to a head. He was as certain of this as he was of his own sword. There could be no mistaking the tidings that had come to him while he wrestled with fell dreams, and for perhaps the first time, Imrahil understood the despair that had almost made Theoden turn away from the Pelennor Fields. When Eomer had confessed that the Rohirrim had hesitated before entering the fray, he had been horrified. But now, he knew why it had been so. Sometimes, it was better to arrive not at all than to arrive too late. Better to witness defeat from afar than to have it compounded by the stark images of one’s failure.

But Imrahil had been raised as a prince and a noble under Gondor’s exacting standards. And much as he might wish to, he could not turn aside from his duty. Even if that duty took him to the brink of despair and the fall of Gondor, he would follow it. And if he arrived only to discover that all hope had perished, then he would perish alongside his king.

"Honored one?" Mohart called as his horse kept pace with Imrahil’s.

"I would have peace for a moment longer," Imrahil answered quietly. "Let me alone with my thoughts."

"Solitude in the desert is dangerous," Mohart warned. "It drives minds to madness and creates monsters of men."

"Perhaps," Imrahil murmured. "But even so, I would have silence."

With obvious reluctance and curiosity glimmering in his eyes, Mohart nodded and moved his horse to the side as they galloped across the sand. And Imrahil once again gave himself over to the musings of his mind, trusting his mount to follow his men and trusting his men to continue south as per Mohart’s guidance. It was not long before the prince had recalled the disturbing dreams that had plagued him throughout the day, but as before, he could learn nothing from them save that this night was the night. This night, all things would change.

And with this ominous thought, the sun plunged below the horizon, leaving the desert in darkness.

 

 

 

__

Iluh—Haradric term for the Valar

 

__

Author’s Notes: First off, I wanted to answer a question that has popped up in several of the reviews. The Destroyer of Harad and all the legends surrounding him have absolutely no basis in canon. They are my own invention, so apologies to Tolkien. I have no idea what he would think of all this. Likewise, the Gathering, the arrangements of the tribes, the anarchic political system they’ve chosen to employ, and just about everything else in Harad is also original and has no link to any of Tolkien’s books.

The discussion in this chapter between Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli has a small blip regarding an earlier encounter with the Mouth of Sauron. Sorry for the shameless plug, but this refers to my story "Fear No Darkness," which is currently a work in progress. But don’t worry. I haven’t given anything vital away in this chapter that might spoil the events in "Fear." :)

And finally, your character list awaits you below. So to conclude, MANY thanks for all the wonderful reviews and I’ll see you next chapter!

  **  
Character List**   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

  **  
Tribe List**   
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe 


	23. Where Many Paths and Errands Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of you will have recognized the title of this chapter already, but for those not in the know, its part of the song "The Road Goes Ever On and On." For a reference, its in The Fellowship of the Ring _on page 58 and also on page 102 of the Ballantine 50th edition version._

Aulit stopped and lowered his desert scarves as he reached the hall used for the Gathering. It was half an hour past sunset, and after the passage of another half-hour, the delegates would be arriving for the second night of negotiations. With any luck, this night would be a calmer night than the previous one, but of course, that was never a guarantee, particularly in Haradhur. With a sigh, Aulit shook his head and motioned his guards to disperse throughout the hall. By now, the temperatures had cooled sufficiently that it was safe to enter.

With its domed ceiling of glass, the Gathering hall caught and held the heat of the sun during its hottest moments of the day, making the inside burn as an oven. It was a safety precaution that all tribes had agreed upon when construction of the hall first began, and it ensured that no poison or other tool of assassination could be positioned inside the hall during the heat of the day. Neither could assassins find places to hide themselves before the tribes began to converge, for the building’s soaring temperatures would not permit it.

In order to cool the hall before the Gathering, the officiating tribe would send men to the hall at sunset and they would throw open all the doors, allowing the chill of the night air to have access. Then they would stand guard, making certain that no one entered prematurely. It was a tradition that dated back to the first Gathering held in Haradhur, and it was one that had served the Haradrim well over the years. In a world of uncertainty and almost constant political unrest, it was a great comfort to know there was at least one place that was safe from the artifices of rebels and assassins during the day.

Speaking quietly with one of the door guards, Aulit received a report that all was well and that none had tried to gain entrance during the time that the doors had been flung open to cool the hall. This report was more of a formality than anything else was, because the inner halls were still quite warm, and Aulit seriously doubted that anyone would have the desire to enter. The heat was such that it could now be endured, but it was still unpleasant and there were easier ways to lay traps than by bearing the day’s collected warmth.

Loosening his robes as he entered the outer hall after his guards, Aulit made his way to the inner hall, intending to see that there were sufficient seats. He would not put it past the Lotessa tribe to have made off with a few chairs just before sunrise in the hopes that a lack of seats might humiliate the Khurintu tribe, which was notorious for arriving late to the Gathering every night after the first night. If this had happened, more chairs would have to be procured quickly, for Aulit intended to see that this night at least began without complications.

The lingering heat caught Aulit full in the face as he entered, and he closed his eyes and turned his head slightly as he tried to adjust to the shift in temperature. Once he became acclimated, he opened his eyes again, turned to the center of the room, and instantly abandoned all hope of seeing that this night got off to a smooth start.

Standing behind Aulit’s seat at the table was the Destroyer.

Reacting purely on instinct, Aulit froze. As leader of the Gartabo tribe, Aulit possessed a keen mind that was skilled in evaluating trade, ordering management, and making decisions under pressure. He was a highly practical man who put little stock in rumors and legends of the ancestors, which was something rather unusual in Harad. In fact, Aulit had viewed the entire appearance by the Destroyer as something of a curiosity but not a significant threat so long as the panic of the masses could be controlled. After all, the Destroyer was really little more than an ancient myth fleshed into life by the agents of Sauron.

But all of Aulit’s finely honed mental faculties and reasoning fled at the sight of Harad’s most feared religious icon standing before him where no man should have been able to enter. And for one of the first times in Aulit’s life, he did not know what to do.

"Cast them out."

Aulit started, not certain that he had heard correctly. It was a rare thing when the Destroyer chose to speak, and only a few of the legends surrounding the _Iluh_ ’s herald indicated that he spoke. But it appeared that the Destroyer had elected to utter words again, and eventually finding his own tongue, Aulit hastily begged for clarification.

"Who? Whom shall I cast out, honored servant of the _Iluh_?" His voice was shrill and had any others heard him at that moment, they might have mistaken his identity. Never before had the leader of Gartabo sounded so helpless or so vulnerable. He was literally shaking with terror, and his fear was increasing exponentially with each passing second.

"The abominations. They must not be allowed here."

__

Abominations? Aulit’s mind started racing as quickly as one of Portu’s prize stud horses, but he couldn’t quite seem to grasp what the Destroyer was talking about. _Unless_ … "The elf and dwarf?" he questioned, trying to sound as humble and submissive as possible. "They are to be cast out? Shall we eliminate them?"

"The _Iluh_ shall see to them," the Destroyer hissed. "From this desert, salvation shall spring as water from a well, and power once lost shall return. But heed not my words and thou shall be swept from the earth by plague and by fire."

"Nay, great one, I hear your words and obey," Aulit said hastily, prostrating himself upon the ground.

"See that it is so, then, and perhaps thou shalt earn a place of honor in the realm of the _Iluh_ ," the Destroyer murmured, his voice growing distant. "Go now, and do their will."

"Yes, great one. But what of Gondor and Rohan? What if…" Aulit raised his head abruptly and trailed off, falling silent as he glanced about the room. Save for himself, the inner hall was now empty.

The Destroyer was gone.

* * * *

"I will be glad to return to Aglarond when this is finished," Gimli sighed, watching the side streets and alleyways as he walked. "To my mind, the largest problem facing Harad, and also ourselves, is the weather. I fear the heat has driven these people mad. What they need is a large underground network of caves."

Walking beside the dwarf, Aragorn shook his head while Legolas laughed quietly. "If given a choice, my friend, I would rather live here than in your caves," the elf declared.

"I fear that I must agree with Gimli," Eomer said. "Not man nor dwarf nor even elf was intended to live in this weather, and I would cheerfully join Gimli in the Glittering Caves if given the choice."

Flanked by Imhran and Arhelm, Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli were making their way toward the domed hall for the second night of the Gathering. _And if nothing else, this should prove to be a very interesting night_ , Aragorn decided. The tension in the air was so thick it was palpable. The fact that the banter between Legolas and Gimli was still going strong despite the atmosphere was testament to how severe the situation was becoming. Aragorn had learned that when either of them was uncertain or anxious about something, elf and dwarf would fall back upon teasing one another, using it as an outlet for nervous energy. It bothered Aragorn that Eomer was joining with them in this, not because it reflected on Eomer’s own mood but because Aragorn longed to do the same and was very close to giving in to the temptation. _Is the unease that bad tonight?_ He wondered. Catching a few dark looks from venders and merchants who seemed to shy away from their company, Aragorn decided that yes, the situation was indeed that bad.

"The heat has clearly affected you both," Legolas was saying as Aragorn again picked up the flow of the conversation. "Though it is doubtful if Gimli was ever truly sane."

"I fear it is your mind that has been touched by this heat," Gimli retorted. "Of course, elves are strange creatures anyway."

"In what way?" Legolas demanded.

"Explain the preoccupation with trees and stars. Neither serves a useful purpose unless it be for firewood, yet you revere them as though they were the end all of your existence. Dwarves, on the other hand, turn their mind to things of a more practical value."

"Hence your kind’s love of gold, which is useful only for ornamentation," Legolas noted.

"Elves use it often enough in that," Gimli reminded him.

"Peace, both of you," Eomer laughed. "With regard to elves and dwarves, in my mind, the two of you are the strangest yet."

"And what cause have you to claim that you are normal?" Gimli demanded.

"But I am not normal," Eomer answered. "I am the King Eomer of Rohan and heir to the revered Eorl of old. My differences are cause for renown. Your differences, I fear, are reflections on your personalities."

"Nay, you are not the only member of a royal family, oh great king," Legolas said with a teasing smile. "For I, too, am heir to elf lords long departed and the son of he who rules Greenwood the Great. Alas, I fear now it is only Gimli who can have no excuse for his peculiarities."

"You forget that I am known as elf-friend among my kind," Gimli smirked. "If I am strange, it is your fault for making me so."

"I know of no elf-friend who refers to elves as strange creatures," Legolas said.

"Then you do not know many elf-friends," Gimli told him. "Or mayhap that royal blood in your veins has rendered you deaf to the complaints against your kind by those who suffer to be called your friends."

"Suffer? Master Dwarf, there are many who yearn to be called our friends, for in that there is great renown. It is beyond my comprehension why any should refer to your stunted frame as an elf-friend."

"How can it be, oh great Prince of Mirkwood, that your mind is so limited by such a meager comprehension?" Gimli asked. "When considering a strong, mighty dwarf such as myself, it is no wonder that the elves have begged me to accept the title elf-friend and so bring the elves renown for claiming such a friendship."

Exchanging a hopeless look with Eomer, Aragorn idly wondered whether or not Gimli and Legolas ever had any normal conversations. Even when the situation was not a stressful one, some of their speech reminded him of the time after they’d just met and occasionally had to be physically restrained from attacking one another. Of course, there was the major difference that Gimli had gradually learned the fine art of arguing with Legolas, and their verbal matches were more or less even now. Still, a casual listener might make the mistake of assuming the two were bitter enemies when just the opposite was the case. In his long life, Aragorn had never seen two such devoted friends. Nor had he seen two friends so vastly different from one another.

But as Aragorn continued to listen absently, he began to detect a note of earnestness in their voices. Both elf and dwarf were highly uneasy, and their banter was covering an unusual amount of anxiety in both of them. Something was building, and they could sense it. But it seemed neither one knew exactly _what_ was bothering them. _And I would say the same for myself_ , Aragorn decided. _I can also sense that something looms upon the horizon, yet I know not how to describe it. Still, this banter must cease soon, for we are beginning to draw attention. Worried or not, we have an appearance to maintain._

"Then that is a wonder of this age," Gimli was saying as Aragorn turned his full attention back to their discussion. "Had my advice been sought, I would have recommended a sturdy dwarven maid."

"And such a recommendation would have been the subject of much laughter, for how can one compare a dwarf to Queen Evenstar."

Realizing that his marriage to Arwen was now up for debate, Aragorn decided that now would be the perfect time to redirect the conversation. "I have heard there will be entertainment tomorrow night during the negotiations. If the Haradrim keep with tradition, it should be a wondrous event."

Legolas and Gimli eyed one another and then nodded, a silent vow to continue the argument later. Aragorn pretended not to notice. "Would you tell us of this entertainment?" Legolas requested. "A diversion in these mindless talks will be eagerly welcomed."

"Can it be that the great elven prince has no stomach for diplomacy?" Gimli gasped with mock amazement. Legolas glared at him and jerked his head toward Aragorn, reminding the dwarf of their unspoken agreement to delay the argument. Aragorn ignored it, but he did wonder if sometimes Legolas and Gimli thought him blind to their body language.

"There will be much dancing and music, as well as singing and food," Aragorn explained. "I would caution you all concerning the food, though, for it is a favorite tool of assassins. However, the rest is harmless enough so long as one maintains one’s guard."

"I knew not that the Haradrim were so elvish," Gimli muttered. "Music and song. It seems the dwarves will have to spread their influence further if we wish to counter such nonsense."

Legolas sighed audibly, Eomer shook his head with patient amusement, and Aragorn rolled his eyes. "I think you will find this particular music and song to be unlike anything you have ever seen or heard before," Aragorn said. "Elven it is most certainly not. In fact…" Aragorn stopped and trailed off, eyes focusing on the street before him. "Legolas…"

"Budari and Arabano," the elf confirmed, his eyes narrowing. "They look as though something has gone amiss."

"We have not even begun the proceedings this night," Gimli muttered, tightening his hold on his axe.

"Welcome to Haradhur," Aragorn sighed, stepping forward and composing his face. "Does not the Gathering begin soon?" he asked when Budari and Arabano drew near. "You are moving the wrong direction."

"Honored ones, we must speak," Budari said, his eyes focusing first on Aragorn and Eomer but then straying to Legolas and Gimli. "Gartabo’s watchmen around the hall have orders to seize the Legolas and Gimli on sight and take them outside the city to be held until a sign from the _Iluh_ releases them or kills them."

Aragorn blinked and Eomer murmured something beneath his breath that would probably not have been said in the presence of ladies. "I trust that Aulit has good reason for ordering his guards to take the seconds of Gondor and Rohan," the king of Gondor said, keeping his voice low.

Budari glanced over at Arabano, who reluctantly took the cue and began to explain. "Our information is not the best, but rumor has it that when Aulit entered the inner hall earlier this evening he found the Destroyer waiting for him."

"Impossible," Aragorn hissed. "The hall is too hot for anyone to enter during the day."

"Or so we thought," Budari said quietly. "But however it was accomplished, apparently the Destroyer warned that the elf and the dwarf must not take part in the Gathering."

"They have been branded as tainted, and all who deal with them are tainted as well," Arabano added.

"What of Gondor and Rohan, then?" Eomer spoke up. "And how does this affect our recent alliance?"

"Once given, the word of Lotessa is stone," Budari said. "Our alliance stands as long as I live. And since I live still, we have come to aid you. Legolas and Gimli must not attend the Gathering tonight, for they shall be taken outright. In the event of a struggle, they may even be killed. Perhaps we may unravel this tangled web of deceit so that they may take part tomorrow night, but for now, it would be best if they left Haradhur entirely."

"We are prepared to offer you our men as guards for those whom you choose to stand in their place," Arabano said. "You will not want for protection, honored ones, but we must move quickly."

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at Legolas and Gimli, both of whom were completely silent and both of whom looked far too casual considering their lives had just been threatened. "What say you?" the king of Gondor asked.

Elf and dwarf exchanged glances and somehow discussed the matter through a series of minute facial expressions that Aragorn didn’t attempt to translate. He could usually get most of their silent communication, but tonight his head was already grappling with too many other things. At length, Legolas and Gimli turned back to Aragorn and Eomer, the decision made. "If it is your wish, we shall depart," Legolas answered. "However, we would not be confined to camp. Have you another mission we might fulfill?"

"The elf is bland company," Gimli explained, neatly ducking a half-hearted swipe on the part of Mirkwood’s prince. "And we would leave the city as is counseled."

"Those who are patrolling the desert are probably on the western side," Eomer mused. "You could join them if you so wish. The eyes of an elf would probably be of much use to them. Perhaps you shall even discover the whereabouts of Asbad."

"Faensul shall be glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs," Legolas agreed with a nod. "He was restless earlier this evening."

"Then if you are going to depart, you must do so in haste before the Khurintu tribe realizes what has happened," Budari cautioned. "For undoubtedly it is their hand at work in this."

"Do the two of you think you are capable of returning to camp without causing too much of a stir?" Aragorn asked with a pointed gaze at elf and dwarf. Both looked offended and Gimli drew himself up straight.

"We shall leave Haradhur with the speed and silence of a hunting Warg," he promised. "None shall even know that we are gone."

"I pray you are right," Aragorn sighed. "Let us depart, then, for if we linger it will seem suspicious."

"Beware," Budari added as a warning. "We here in the city may deal with the brunt of spies and deceivers, but the desert beyond Haradhur can be just as perilous."

* * * *

Lingering just outside the Gathering’s domed hall, a shadow watched and waited. Most of the delegates had already entered, but there were a few key players who had yet to show themselves. And Dashnir was quite content to sit outside and wait until he was certain that these key players would be in attendance. So much now depended on so many little things. In a way, it was now a fool’s game that he and Asbad now played. One step too far to the left or the right might well be the undoing of years of plans and preparations. But such was the way of all good schemes, or so Dashnir had learned. The greater the risk, the greater the reward, and those who could successfully orchestrate such risks became the leaders and the rulers.

So far, all was working according to design this night. The spies had reported in just before sunset with the news that Portu’s raiders had done their job and that the rumors of the Destroyer could be heard in all of Haradhur. Elf and dwarf now signified death and destruction in the minds of many Haradrim. Asbad had successfully slipped into the hall before Aulit arrived, thanks in part to a Gartabo guard at the west entrance who had long accepted money and goods from Khurintu. He was now marked for death later in the night, and the secret of the Destroyer’s true identity would soon be a secret known only to Khurintu and Lotessa. Beyond that, the men were all in position, and it was down to the last tidbits of preparations and the last moments of waiting.

But these last moments were perhaps the most dangerous and the most difficult. Members of the Soltari tribe were an unpredictable lot and Fastahn more so than most. If he failed to tell Lotessa of Aulit’s intentions and elf and dwarf arrived at the Gathering only to have Gartabo’s men attack them, all was lost. King Elessar and King Eomer would protest, a great argument would ensue possibly climaxing in bloodshed, and Khurintu would never enter the picture. All would be for naught. Of course, there were contingencies set up should this happen, but the situation would become extremely complex and the chance for victory would dim considerably.

But Dashnir was now reasonably sure that this would not happen. Neither the Lotessa tribe nor the delegation from Gondor and Rohan had arrived at the Gathering yet, which probably meant that they were together. And if Budari and Arabano had taken the trouble to search out Elessar and Eomer and risk making their alliance with them known, then undoubtedly Fastahn had fulfilled his role.

Dashnir shook his head and smiled slightly. Fastahn was a fool in so many ways. He had no suspicions that his "agent" in the Khurintu tribe gave him only information that was carefully selected and doctored ere it ever reached his ears. Nor did Fastahn suspect that he was monitored closely after receiving his information to ensure that he did what he was expected to do with his "secrets." _Such a predictable fool_ , Dashnir sighed. _A danger, to be certain, but a predictable danger. In truth, he is among the least of my concerns._

Having reassured himself that elf and dwarf were alerted to their danger and that the contingency planning was unnecessary, Dashnir was now concerned about the possibility that elf and dwarf would go ahead and face Aulit’s guards rather than choosing discretion. For the entire journey into the desert, Dashnir had attempted to solve this mystery by learning the minds and hearts of his adversaries, yet in the end, he had been forced to admit failure. It was not total failure by any means, for he strongly suspected that discretion would be the choice of Gondor and Rohan in this instance, but that was still only a guess and in no way did it approach certainty. But there was nothing to be done for that now—as Asbad was fond of pointing out—and so Dashnir tried to put such thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing again on the streets.

A few minutes later, his wait was rewarded. Hushed voices caught his ear, and peering through the shadows, Dashnir’s heart skipped a beat. They were coming. Moreover, he could see no sign of either the elf or the dwarf. Hope and adrenaline began to race through his veins as the figures drew closer, and it was only with great difficulty that Dashnir managed to still his breathing and slide even further back into the shadows so as not to be seen. They had done it! Khurintu had done it! The rest was academic, for victory was at hand. So close was it, in fact, that it could be tasted.

With euphoria rushing through his mind, Dashnir watched as King Elessar and King Eomer walked into the hall bereft of their seconds. They were as other men now, with no control over unnatural beings such as elves and dwarves. They could be challenged without the fear of destruction looming over Harad, and they could be kept within the hall while the rest of the Khurintu tribe did its work.

It was no easy task for Dashnir to still his voice and quiet the cries of victory that demanded release, but somehow, he managed it. With a smile that might have made Sauron shiver, Khurintu’s second waited until the entire group had disappeared into the hall, and then he stepped out of the darkness. His job was now a simple one, and it was one he could do in his sleep. He had, in fact, done something similar to it many times before when he couldn’t sleep. It would be a joy and a pleasure to do it now with a purpose to back it. Straightening his robes and assuming an expression of affronted dignity, Dashnir made his way to the hall and stepped inside.

The game was afoot.

* * * *

"And so it is just the two of us," Gimli murmured as they wove through the walls and structures that comprised Haradhur.

"May the Valar have mercy upon me," Legolas sighed to the stars above.

"If you despise my company so much, you are more than welcome to leave," Gimli said, relaxing his guard slightly since the elf did not seem to be overly concerned for their safety. "But it will be your loss, for at this time there is no better company to be had than the company of a dwarf."

"If that is indeed the case, I shudder to think of what Middle Earth will come to," Legolas answered. "Its ultimate fate will be evil beyond all measure if things do not change."

Gimli scowled. "Do you wish to know what I believe, Legolas?"

"No."

"I believe you envy my natural ability. I believe you are jealous."

Caught off guard by this remark, the elf snorted despite himself and started to laugh. "Jealous? My friend, it is as I said before—the day’s heat has made you mad. But indulge me, if you will. Of what am I jealous?"

"To begin with, a strong, compact body," Gimli said, trying to ignore the fact that Legolas was now doubling over with laughter. "One might also add an intelligent mind to that list as well as incomparable skill with the axe." The laughter grew and Gimli wondered whether or not he was actually advancing his cause through this tactic. "Eloquent speech, swift reflexes, keen senses…" He trailed off as he watched Legolas clutch helplessly at his stomach. "Composure, too," the dwarf finally added. "I believe that you could do with that as well."

Legolas howled at this, laughing so hard that it brought tears to his eyes, and in light of all they’d been through, Gimli decided that the elf probably needed a good laugh. And so he sighed and tried to wait patiently for the elf to calm himself.

"Are you finished?" the dwarf asked pointedly after a minute or so. "We should reach camp, collect Faensul, and be off. The mood of this city is not a good one, and I have no wish to be caught in whatever political storm breaks tonight."

"Ai, my apologies," Legolas breathed, still holding his stomach but managing to regain his perfect posture. "I know not quite what came over me."

"No one ever does," Gimli muttered. "Think you that you can control your emotions until we are free of this city?"

The elf nodded rather breathlessly and began walking once again. "It is good that none are currently about or they might have wondered at our actions."

" _Our_ actions?" Gimli shook his head. "I had been taught that elven memory is long, but apparently it is also selective. I was doing nothing that warranted attention. Any foolishness that may have taken place was solely your own doing."

"Ah, but how can I help myself when I walk in the presence of such comedy?"

The dwarf decided to let that comment slide for now, though the elf would certainly pay for it later. Gimli had found the fabled scorpion within one of the buildings that surrounded their camp, and he intended to put it to good use come morning. "So tell me, Legolas. What do you think of the Destroyer and the fact that we are now both heralds of destruction?"

"I think they judged correctly in your case," the elf retorted.

Gimli sighed and sent a long-suffering look up at Legolas. "I did not ask in jest."

Legolas’s mood altered almost immediately, and he nodded. "I know, and for my answer I apologize. But my own feelings are uncertain, and I am reluctant to speak of them. It is strange, actually. I feel…it is as though…" The elf trailed off, his eyes distant and troubled.

"What?" Gimli pressed. "What do you feel?"

"In truth, I cannot say," Legolas answered quietly. "I have a…a vague sense of foreboding. Yet it is a strange foreboding, and very unlike the general sense of unease I have had for most of this journey. This new feeling whispers of a coming darkness that be neither avoided nor averted. We are powerless before it."

The dwarf frowned. "That is strange indeed. Perhaps there is some merit to the tradition of the Destroyer, even though the Destroyer is merely a man in this instance. What do you make of your feeling, Legolas?"

"I know not what to make of it, my friend. But I do know that I have felt like this once before."

"When?"

The elf grimaced and hesitated a moment before answering. "During the Council of Elrond, do you recall hearing that Aragorn gave Sméagol into the keeping of the Mirkwood elves?" At Gimli’s nod, Legolas continued. "It was the night before Sméagol escaped. The night before the orcs attacked. I could not sleep that night, and darkness seemed to cloud my thoughts like a thick blanket made for a heavy winter. All the next day, the feeling grew that something was amiss. I could not label what, nor can I now. But it is the same. Something is brewing, Gimli, and it is not something that is easily stopped."

They had now reached Gondor’s campsite and were making their way toward the tents that housed both the men and the horses. And as Gimli pondered the elf’s words, he noticed the extreme silence that had fallen over their encampment. _Which is only normal, considering there is likely to be no one here save a few guards walking about the perimeter_ , the dwarf told himself. But still…it was very quiet.

"Gimli?"

Gimli shook himself back to reality and wondered what had just been said. "Pardon?"

"I asked for your thoughts on the matter," Legolas said, moving to the main tent and pulling the flaps aside so that they might enter. "A moment, if you will. I wish to take my whetstone with us."

"By all means, proceed." The dwarf stepped into the tent after the elf, and as Legolas began searching through his pack, Gimli considered what he thought about the elf’s words. "Your senses are keen, my friend," he said at length, pausing to light a small lantern when it seemed that Legolas was having trouble finding his whetstone. "And I will admit to being strangely anxious myself this night, yet I wonder how an evil can be inevitable. The future is an untried road, and upon its pages, many lines can be written. But until tomorrow becomes today, it is still an unknown land."

"I agree with you, Gimli, yet my instincts say otherwise," Legolas murmured. "I know not how to interpret this." A pensive silence fell, each lost in his own thoughts, until Legolas spoke up rather abruptly with underlying tension lacing his voice. "In many ways, this is like Amon Hen."

Gimli blinked. _Amon Hen? Perhaps I was right about the heat. He has gone mad._ He turned to give the elf his patented stare of incredulity, but he froze at what he saw. Legolas was no longer shifting through his pack but instead watching one of the entrances to the tent closely, his bow in hand and an arrow already set to the string. Now recognizing the reference to Amon Hen, Gimli seized his axe and moved behind the elf, facing the other entrance to the tent. "Yes, I suppose it is like Amon Hen," Gimli responded, trying to keep his voice light and conversational. "Many of our actions then may apply to our actions now."

"But there are some differences. For example, I see only two main options."

"You speak truly," Gimli said, keeping his eyes fixed on the tent flaps before him and trusting Legolas to guard his back against the only other way in. His hands gripped the haft of his axe even tighter as he caught the sounds the elf had heard earlier. Hushed whispers outside in the shadows, muffled by the tent’s heavy material, became audible to even the dwarf’s ears. A shiver of anticipation raced up his spine at the same time that a cold dread settled over his heart.

Behind Gimli, Legolas suddenly shifted slightly. "Perhaps I was wrong," the elf said, his voice a little too casual. "Perhaps this is more like Moria. You remember when I identified at least nine different causes to the problems that we faced there? And even they were not enough for a sufficient explanation."

Gimli froze at his friend’s words. Shortly after the War of the Ring, he and Legolas had aided Aragorn and Eomer in clearing much of the Ephel Duath around Ithilien of Orcs. It was during this time that elf and dwarf had developed a language of codes that could be used when listening ears might be lurking about. Using this language, Legolas had just informed Gimli that he could hear at least nine different enemies—possibly more—moving outside the tent. The dwarf tried to silence his breathing and so that he might also hear the different voices and so count the forces that drew near, but his ears were not acute enough. "Think you that we should treat this situation as we treated Moria?" Gimli eventually asked, hating the idea of running even if they were facing the possibility of far superior numbers.

"The elves keep their grudges long, but even we have been known to forgive and forget. Sometimes we do so quite suddenly."

__

He wants to leave immediately? Gimli frowned, wondering if his dwarven pride would allow such a thing and eventually deciding that it wouldn’t. "Elves may forgive, but dwarves are creatures of the earth and we stand fast in its strength," he said at length. "In any case, I am unconvinced that this is a situation similar to Moria." And with that, Gimli moved forward, giving himself room to swing. The voices had drawn very close and then abruptly stopped. It wouldn’t be long now.

"Then I fear it will become like Moria ere long, and we may greatly rue the strength of the earth and the grudges of the elves," Legolas sighed, shifting all his weight to the balls of his feet. "A plague upon the stiff necks of dwarves."

"And a plague upon the stiff necks of elves," Gimli returned with a grim smile.

No sooner had Gimli spoken these words than the tent flap before him was ripped open. Eight men came barreling toward the dwarf, and the familiar adrenaline rush of battle took hold of Gimli, granting him a strength known only to the dwarves. He felt Legolas moving behind him and realized that men had also entered from the other side of the tent. They were alone and surrounded, but at the moment, that fact did not faze the dwarf. He was Gimli, son of Glóin, Lord of the Glittering Caves, renowned warrior, hero, elf-friend, and member of the Fellowship of the Ring. Beyond that, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

" _Barak khazud!_ "

The dwarven battle cry rang loud within the tent, and with a speed seemingly at odds with his short, stocky frame, Gimli leaped forward and put his axe to work. The men had clearly been briefed as to the ways of their opponents for they bore metal shields and carried them high to deflect arrows. With a slight shake of his head and the rather belated thought that perhaps Legolas had been right to classify this as a Moria battle, Gimli attacked.

Axe met shield and a man cried out as his arm broke under the force of the blow. Without pause, Gimli swept on to the next man, knocking shields and bodies aside as he wove a path through his enemies. He heard two arrows ricochet off metal and knew that Legolas would be hard-pressed to hold the men on his side of the tent at bay. Deciding to backtrack, Gimli knocked down one more shield and swung back toward the elf.

"Legolas, turn!"

Ducking under a swinging club, Legolas leaped away from the men he had been fighting, rolled to the center of the tent, and came up on one knee with bow ready. Three quick arrows flew over Gimli’s head, and the dwarf reflexively ducked when he felt one of them whistle next to his ear. Looking back, he watched in satisfaction as the first two bolts found their mark, but the third was deflected when a shield was hastily jerked back up. But the preoccupation with the arrows was enough for Gimli to come in from the side and bring his axe down with such force that he drove it through both shield and man.

"Back!" Legolas yelled, bringing out his knife and spinning as the men streamed into the tent and attempted to get behind him. Hearkening to his shout, Gimli sidestepped one blow and hit the ground rolling, coming up next to the elf.

A quick count on the part of the dwarf revealed that eleven men now surrounded them. _Not bad_ , Gimli reflected, watching his opponents carefully during the lull that had fallen upon the battle. _Certainly not nine as Legolas thought, but not bad. We have faced worse and lived to tell of it._ "The Morannon," he hissed to Legolas. The elf shifted slightly behind him and the dwarf knew the plan had been considered and accepted. Now they only waited for the men to make the first move. It was during this time that Gimli abruptly noticed the curious dearth of knives and swords on the part of the Haradrim. There a few scattered here and there, but the men carried primarily clubs and staves. _Murder is not their intention_ , Gimli realized. _But if they do not seek to kill us, then what do they—_

"Surrender."

The sudden command broke through the dwarf’s thoughts as well as answering his questions, and Gimli glanced over his shoulder to see who might be speaking. He found himself looking at a tall man with eyes as black as coal. The loose robes of the desert concealed his form, but he held himself with the air of one in whom there is much strength. _Nor is his strength untested_ , Gimli thought to himself, watching this man take a step forward and assume a battle stance that would befit a large warrior. The man was not unlike in appearance to Dashnir, and as Gimli began to consider this, he began to receive the same feeling of ominous nobility that Dashnir could convey. This was a powerful man, and shadows seemed to gather beneath the folds of his robes. _Asbad_ , his mind whispered, and judging from the way that Legolas was watching this man, Gimli guessed that his instincts were correct.

"You cannot win," the man continued once he was certain he had the attention of both elf and dwarf. "Save yourself the dishonor of defeat."

"And opt for the dishonor of capitulation?" Gimli asked with an incredulous laugh. He shook his head, chuckling slightly at the thought. Despite the situation’s obvious danger, the idea was quite humorous and Gimli decided that this particular Haradrim was not terribly familiar with the ways of elves and dwarves. Never mind that he was accounted the most powerful man in Harad, Asbad still had much to learn of his opponents. "I have a better suggestion," Gimli continued, his voice conversational but threaded with an undercurrent of warning. "You cast aside _your_ weapons, and we will let you surrender to us."

The dwarf’s words were followed by a rather profound silence, and then Asbad moved forward slightly. "I will not ask again," he warned.

"That is well, for then we will not have to answer again," Gimli retorted, shifting his weight and bending his knees. Beside him, he felt Legolas tense. Their instincts did not fail them. The moment Gimli finished speaking, Asbad cried aloud in the tongue of the Haradrim and the attack was on again.

Waiting until the last possible moment, when the raised clubs were almost upon them, Legolas and Gimli suddenly sprang apart. Their enemies crashed between them, cutting them off from one another, but dwarf and elf were not bothered by this for they knew exactly what they were doing. 

On one side of the men, Gimli battled his way forward until the tent wall was before him. Once there, he turned abruptly and began fighting to get back into the center, his swinging axe clearing a wide path through the men he faced. Sensing motion from the rear, the dwarf brought his axe haft up to serve as a shield for his head and leaped forward into his next opponent’s blow, feeling the air part as a club was brought down just behind him. Knocking the end of the axe’s handle into the face of the enemy before him, he then shoved the axe blade backward over his head and smiled grimly as he felt a solid hit. Next, he was ducking beneath another strike and swinging at enemies from the side.

While dealing with his own opponents, Gimli periodically caught glimpses of Legolas on the other side of the tent, and he smiled as he watched the elf. The dwarf would never admit it to anyone, but his friend was something of a wonder to behold during a battle. Legolas moved so fluidly that he seemed to fight in slow motion, yet whenever a man moved to strike him, the elf was never there to be struck. However, there were too many men for them to fight completely without mishap, and after blocking a heavy staff and stumbling slightly from the impact, Legolas’s bow was torn from his grasp. Gimli winced when this slight distraction gave one man enough time to land a heavy club on the elf’s lower back, but the elf had lived too long to be incapacitated so easily. Immediately bringing out his hunting knife, Legolas rolled with the hit and swept his knife up at the same time. Gimli grinned as the tip of Legolas’s blade slashing deeply into his attacker’s arm, driving the man back and giving the elf enough time to readjust his defenses.

Working steadily in this manner, it wasn’t long before elf and dwarf were back to back once more in the center of the tent, and now only six battered men stood to face them. Three more men lay dead or dying, and two others were severely wounded.

"You fight well." It was Asbad again, and much to Gimli’s surprise, a tone of grudging admiration colored his voice. Khurintu’s tribal leader inclined his head in a small show of respect for the two friends, but his eyes were cold and it was clear that the attack was far from over. "In another time, you might have earned the honor of my people," Asbad continued. "But you come too late to our land and we must still consider betrayals of old. I cannot allow you to win." He whistled softly, the tent flaps parted again, and more men began to stream in.

"Moria," Legolas hissed, retreating until his back came into contact with Gimli’s head. "I would not relive Gandalf’s fall."

"Not yet," the dwarf argued. The fury of battle was upon him and, though he knew in his heart that Legolas was probably right, he could not turn tail and run until it was absolutely clear that there was no other choice. "Mirkwood Wargs."

Legolas let out a frustrated sigh, but in that sigh Gimli could hear reluctant acquiescence. It surprised the dwarf greatly, for Legolas had sounded insistent. But Gimli then remembered the elf’s earlier words of inevitable evil and wondered if perhaps Legolas thought their plight hopeless.

"On my signal," the elf whispered, interrupting Gimli’s thoughts, and the dwarf nodded, readying himself for the furious battle that was about to take place. He still held true to the notion that nothing was inevitable, and he intended to prove the elf wrong. A moment passed, the men around them tensed as though to attack, and then Legolas moved.

"NOW!"

Gimli sprang forward and the elf backpedaled rapidly after him, following the dwarf by sound and defending his back while Gimli fought furiously to reach a tent corner where they could both turn and fight together. For a while it seemed to be working, and Gimli was becoming elated with the prospect that his plan was successful. But even as talented as both warriors were, the press of men became too great for them. Reacting out of instinct, Gimli jumped forward under a blow that fell between the himself and the elf. The swing’s follow up was so swift that Legolas was driven from Gimli’s side and forced to move back toward the center of the tent as men swarmed around him.

Cut off from the elf and now unable to prevent his enemies from getting behind him, Gimli threw himself against the nearest man and sent him barreling into his comrades. Using the confusion this provided, the dwarf blocked left with his axe, dodged a blow from the right, and broke away from the main grouping of men, ensuring himself a bit more breathing room. His axe seemed to be everywhere and none could penetrate the dwarf’s guard, so fast were his reflexes. But he knew well that he could not keep this up for long.

Gimli caught a brief glimpse of Legolas, who had now been driven to the center of the tent and was currently engaged in a frantic fight within a pressing circle of men. Realizing that the elf would be unable to hold his own against such odds, Gimli adjusted the direction of his attacks and redoubled his efforts. Up, around, and forward swung the axe, and the dwarf’s hands were little more than a blur as he fought in a deadly dance, desperate to reach Legolas before aught could happen to the elf.

__

Just a minute longer, my friend, he mentally yelled at Legolas. _Just a minute longer and I shall be at your back again._ But try as he might, Gimli could not seem to break through the men and Legolas was making no progress in any direction despite his frantic attempts to get at least a tent wall behind him. With a wordless cry, Gimli began extending his axe swings well beyond what prudence would dictate in a last, desperate effort to reach his friend.

His distraction proved to be his undoing. Out of the corner of his eye, Gimli caught the dull light of the lantern gleam off its sharp edge, and in a frozen moment of time, the dwarf realized that he had only seconds to act if he wished to save his life. Turning a club on the blade of his axe and forcing one man back with the haft, Gimli attempted a dodge in the form of a frantic sideways leap, but his balance had been off and he was only partially successfully. The knife missed his chest and hit his thigh instead, sinking to the hilt as it buried itself in the main part of the muscle. Light flashed wildly in the dwarf’s vision and despite all his pride and all his strength, Gimli roared in pain.

Hearing the dwarf’s sudden yell, Legolas was almost taken out himself as he froze in sheer surprise. Never before had he heard such a sound from any dwarf, and as such it took a moment for him to recognize it for what it was it. By the time his startled mind began to think again, the fight had swept him even further from Gimli and he hurriedly sought to reverse the press, searching desperately through the swarming men for any sign of his comrade. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he did know that the dwarf was now wounded. And judging from the fact that he had cried out, Gimli was wounded badly. He would be unable to keep up his defenses, and their only hope for mutual survival lay in standing together. With a cry of rage, Legolas intensified his attacks and fought valiantly to reach the dwarf’s side, hoping against hope that he could do so in time.

But the elf was too late. Gimli did not recover fast enough from the knife lodged in his leg, and even as he straightened painfully to raise his axe in defense against the next strike, a club from behind came smashing toward the dwarf. By now, Legolas had spotted his friend and was close enough to see the blow that cannoned down upon the Gimli’s unprotected head and to see also that Gimli was unaware of the danger. Legolas started to shout a warning, but a swinging staff caught him in the stomach and robbed him of breath. His warning cry came out as no more than a whisper that was swiftly overwhelmed by the clash of steel and the jeers of the Haradrim. Gimli remained oblivious to his peril, the club descended with strength enough to have been wielded by a troll, and Gimli fell to the floor without a sound.

In the course of his long years, Legolas had seen lesser strikes kill on impact. Fear flooded the elf as a river overflowing its banks, and before he even fully realized what had happened, he had fought, stabbed, and shoved his way to Gimli’s side. While fending off the remainder of the men, he stole quick glances at the dwarf’s still form. He soon wished he had not looked, for from where he stood, Legolas could not see a rise or fall of the chest. All color had drained from Gimli’s face, and his body lay as still as stone. Complete panic and overpowering grief rushed through Legolas, and as he took in the sight of his motionless friend, something deep inside the elf snapped.

Legolas would never clearly remember what happened next. It seemed his vision filled with a red haze and the world turned into a sea of blood. Tears of mourning streamed down his cheeks, and his throat constricted with convulsive sobs. The elf threw himself into battle with an anger and a passion he had never before known. Blows rained down upon him, yet they slowed him not. He shook them off, heedless of their crippling affects as his mind filled with one life-shattering thought—Gimli was gone. And with this realization, Legolas ceased to care whether or not he himself lived. If he died, so be it. At least he would take the dwarf’s killers with him.

And with all other thoughts fleeing his mind, the elf spun, leaped, ducked, attacked, parried, and fought on instinct and anger alone, all rational thought having died with the dwarf. Never before and never again would he fight so recklessly or so successfully. Men fell before his blade as autumn leaves caught in a gale. Legolas was conscious of nothing but the swell of battle and the smell of blood. Everything he was and everything he had ever learned coalesced into a fury so tangible and so violent that a few of the men turned aside rather than facing the madness in his eyes.

But such a defense could not last, even for an elf. Numbers were against him as they had been against Gimli, and rage had robbed the elf of any semblance of caution. He over-extended his guard one too many times, and the blunt edge of a knife caught him on the side of the head. With a surprised grunt, Legolas swayed, staggered, and toppled over. The last thing he saw was a furious, blood-splattered man looming over him. Darkness swam before his eyes, the world was abruptly veiled in shadow, and then he knew no more.

 

 

__

Barak khazud!—Axes of the dwarves! (Dwarven battle cry)

 

__

Author’s Notes: Many of you will have recognized the title of this chapter already, but for those not in the know, it’s part of the song "The Road Goes Ever On and On." For a reference, it’s in The Fellowship of the Ring _on page 58 and also on page 102 of the Ballantine 50th edition version._

Apologies to Mari if I’ve thrown off the "world view" again, but this story just wouldn’t wait. Hopefully you’ll get back on track soon. ;)

For Littlefish, my major is International Law and Diplomacy with an emphasis in the Middle East. For the diplomacy part, I’ve taken numerous courses on politics, so it might as well be my major. ;)

Thanks go out to all the reviewers, but I’d like to throw out special appreciation to both RainyDayz and Insane Muse, who have been reviewing multiple chapters and giving me amazing words of encouragement. Thank you very much. And to everyone else who has reviewed, THANK YOU! You keep me excited about writing, and I’m ecstatic that the stories are being so well received.

 

** **

Character List   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

 

**  
Tribe List**  
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe  
 **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe  
 **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe  
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Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe  
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Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe  
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Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe


	24. Broken Facets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Arabano decided that he had never met anyone quite as elusive as Fastahn was proving to be. The man was slippery as a serpent when he did not wish to be cornered, and Arabano was beginning to wonder if he came out of not the Soltari tribe but rather one of the tribes on the far eastern border of Harad where the desert gave way to jungles. There the tribesmen were constantly on the lookout for an attack from the east, where men road the fearsome mûmakil into battle and were said to drink the blood of their slain foes. One had to be swift and secretive to survive in that quarter of the land, and Fastahn seemed to be showing a plethora of talents in these areas.

But Arabano was nothing if not determined, and his persistence was something of a legend within his own tribe. If he took it upon himself to complete a task, that task would be finished and not even the _Iluh_ would stand in his way. And so he spent the first two hours of the Gathering attempting to speak to Fastahn, who, in turn, was doing his utmost best to avoid Arabano. It took great patience and great fortitude, but eventually, Arabano managed it. Finding the Soltari tribesman speaking with Sarot of the Indro tribe, who had also been part of the delegation to Gondor, Arabano crept behind him and waited for the conversation to end.

Sarot was no fool and the moment he spied Arabano moving in, he began to back away, sensing that there was more to Arabano’s purpose than idle talk. Fastahn was initially confused, but he eventually turned to see what it was that had caught his companion’s attention. Upon finding Arabano, he paled almost immediately. To his credit, he recovered his composure quickly, but Arabano was shrewd, and Fastahn’s momentary lapse had given Lotessa’s second all the information that he needed. The man was afraid, and Arabano knew exactly how to put that fear to use.

"Would you give us leave for but a moment, Sarot?" Arabano said quietly, his words casual but his voice informing all that this request was in reality nothing short of a command. "There is somewhat I would say to Fastahn."

"Of course," Sarot said, moving away as though even being in Arabano’s presence was dangerous in and of itself.

"This way, if you would," Arabano said to Fastahn, moving skillfully through the crowds and sensing more than seeing the guards from Lotessa close in behind them.

"I have no more to say to you than what I said just ere the Gathering began," Fastahn hissed, eyeing the surrounding soldiers.

"I believe you do, and if you value your life, Fastahn of Soltari, then you will cooperate with me. My sword yearns for blood, and if it cannot have the blood of my enemies, then I shall give it the blood that stands in my way. And at the moment, I consider you to be an impediment to progress."

Fastahn’s eyes were stony and his jaw tightened at this threat, but he had no recourse but to follow Arabano as the man made for one of the exits. In truth, Fastahn was herded more than anything else, but Arabano decided not to parse the matter so finely. It mattered not so long as Fastahn and he were allowed to speak without fear of listening ears.

After heading into the darkened streets and weaving a confusing path into the alleys, Arabano stopped and turned. Fastahn joined him, as did Lotessa’s guards, and Arabano dropped all pretenses of diplomacy. His outer robe was pulled back to reveal the curved sword that hung at his side, and his hand rested upon its hilt, relaxed for the moment but in a position to act immediately should the situation call for it. "And now that we shall not be overheard, I would question you further on your information from this morning," Arabano said quietly, his voice hard as steel. "What did Asbad say to Aulit this evening and how came you by the information?"

"Let me begin by saying that I give this information under duress," Fastahn snapped, his voice seething with anger.

"Noted and ignored," Arabano countered, keeping his voice level and cool. "Continue."

"I was not there, nor do I know if it was truly Asbad. For myself, I do not see how it could have been since Aulit was said to be the first that entered the inner hall."

"Then let us speak in other terms," Arabano said, flexing his hand upon his sword hilt as a warning against foolish word games. "What did the _Destroyer_ say to Aulit, and how did you know of their meeting?"

"The Destroyer told Aulit that the abominations were to be cast out of Haradhur and that the _Iluh_ would see to them," Fastahn answered, his voice rather sullen.

"What else?"

"Nothing of importance."

"What else?!"

"He spoke of salvation rising from the desert," Fastahn muttered, glancing at the guards that still surrounded them. "A power of old shall return and all are to join with it or die."

"Mordor," Arabano murmured in a flash of realization, looking away from Fastahn. "They think to imitate Mordor. Ambitious fools. They can never hope to compete with the Lord Sauron." Turning back to Fastahn, his eyes flashed. "How came you by this information?"

"I do not willingly reveal my informants to even my superiors," Fastahn answered, his tone taking on one of stubbornness. "I shall certainly not reveal them to you."

"I asked not _who_ but rather _how_. Was this information volunteered or extracted?"

"I do not see how that should—"

"Fastahn, if you do not put your tongue to good use then I shall remove it from your mouth," Arabano warned, taking a step toward Fastahn and drawing a small knife from his belt with a speed that could not be tracked by mortal eye.

"It was volunteered," Fastahn hissed, his face paling while the raging light of fury danced in his eyes.

"Then how are we to trust it?" Arabano demanded. "Surely you do not put your faith in an agent of Khurintu."

"It was both a warrior of Khurintu and a guard from Gartabo who informed me, working independently of one another," Fastahn answered. "The guard was outside when the words were spoken. The warrior had heard it from a different Gartabo guard."

Arabano frowned, thinking the matter through. "Let us suppose that your information is accurate," he said at length. "Let us suppose that your spies are not misled. I find it odd that the Destroyer would speak to Aulit. Does that not strike you as strange? For according to the legends as I understand them, the Destroyer rarely speaks at all."

"Many things about this situation strike me as strange," Fastahn said coolly. "Your own alliance with Gondor and Rohan is something of a puzzle in the eyes of the Soltari tribe. The fact that the Destroyer has chosen to vocalize his message seems rather normal when compared with other things that have happened here."

Arabano glared at the man, but he decided that for the moment, Fastahn had served his purpose. Nodding toward the guards, they stepped away and opened up a path behind Fastahn, allowing him to leave. A glare worthy of Sauron’s top advisors became Fastahn’s farewell to Arabano, and he quickly left, weaving through the alleyways and disappearing into the night. Arabano did not follow, though. His mind was now caught in a cloud of confusion. Whatever game Khurintu was playing, it was a strange one. 

Despite Fastahn’s opinion to the contrary, Arabano believed that the Destroyer in the evening had once again been Asbad. It was not impossible to slip into the Gathering early. It required a bit of political maneuvering as well as bribe money, but it could be done. Lotessa had done it the year before in order to steal chairs. But if Arabano was right and Asbad had been the one speaking with Aulit, then what had he meant by his words? They were cryptic enough that they could be interpreted a number of different ways. Aulit had apparently chosen to interpret "abominations" as a reference to Legolas and Gimli, but what of the rest? What was this about salvation from the desert?

Arabano had a growing suspicion that Khurintu’s mustering forces around Lake Hajim were about to be put to use. What other meaning could there be for this strange prophecy? But surely Asbad did not think to attack the Gathering itself! Even the Khurintu tribe had not the men or the might for such an adventure. But what, then, were they planning to do?

__

The Iluh _will deal with the elf and dwarf_ , Arabano repeated silently to himself. _Or rather, the_ Iluh _will deal with the abominations._ Grimacing slightly at his lack of information, Arabano wished he had a firsthand account of what had happened, but Budari would have to pry that from Aulit himself. Personally, Arabano doubted that the Gartabo leader would willingly comply.

"Back to the Gathering," he eventually said to his guards, his voice so soft that the surrounding men had to strain to hear him. "And stay alert. Treachery abounds this night."

* * * *

Upon entering the inner hall with Aragorn and Eomer in tow, Budari’s eyes first moved to Aulit, and there they stayed as the leader of the Gartabo moved toward them. The manner of his walk spoke of a purpose that he was loath to undertake, and Budari soon had a fairly good guess as to what that purpose was. _He has no way of knowing that his guards failed to apprehend the elf and the dwarf_ , Budari thought, trying now to keep his focus upon Aulit while also watching King Elessar and King Eomer. _This should prove interesting._

"My apologies, honored ones," Aulit said when he reached them, apparently deciding that greetings and pleasantries were useless excesses. "If you will hearken for but a moment, I shall endeavor to explain what has happened."

Aragorn adopted a wonderfully innocent expression that greatly impressed Budari. _He has done this before_ , he decided. _Both often and successfully, judging by his seeming ease._ By contrast, Eomer’s expression, while bland, was not nearly as convincing. But it was still authentic enough to fool Aulit, who seemed more intent upon ordering his next words than upon reading the faces of those to whom he spoke.

"I fear I do not understand," the king of Gondor said, his voice pleasant but somewhat curious. "Has there been a slight to either Gondor or Rohan? For we have been well served thus far."

"The deals that Rohan is brokering are most profitable," Eomer added. "Perhaps you sense that some have been less than honest with us?"

Aulit frowned and blinked, completely nonplussed, and despite the circumstances, Budari felt a small thrill of glee race through him. It was not often that someone managed to ruffle the practical, business mind of Gartabo’s tribal head. "But…your seconds, the elf and the dwarf…are you not—"

"Ah, that. Nay, we are not responding to any given offense," Aragorn said. "Rather, we felt they might better serve us on patrol in the desert. Keen senses might be useful there while others can easily fulfil their roles here at the Gathering."

Budari decided that Aulit had never looked quite so pale. Beneath his deep, desert tan, the man was a ghostly white, and once again, Budari found that he was completely enjoying himself at the other’s expense. Reminding himself that the situation was serious, Budari managed to expel most of the mirth from his mind, but he was not totally successful; the corners of his mouth kept twitching.

"They are in the desert?" Aulit asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

"Arhelm is acting as my second this night," Eomer supplied helpfully. "Imhran acts for Gondor as its second."

"And they shall return to Haradhur come morning?"

"The time of their return is a matter of their own discretion," Eomer answered, and Budari had to hide a smile at the game that Aragorn and Eomer were now playing with Aulit. It was a masterpiece of innovation, and he wondered how they were orchestrating it so smoothly. "They may return come midnight, or they might return after the sun rises," the king of Rohan continued. "Elves and dwarves are not as susceptible to the temperatures here as we are."

"But they will be in Haradhur before the continuation of the Gathering tomorrow? They shall be in your camp?" Aulit pressed, a look of fear growing in his black eyes.

"They shall certainly be in Haradhur, but they might not be specifically in our camp," Aragorn said, looking thoughtful. Budari decided that the king of Gondor was overplaying his role slightly, but it didn’t seem to matter as Aulit was so upset by their words that his powers of observation were failing him. "It is strange to me, but Legolas and Gimli have managed to make many interesting acquaintances in their short time here. There has been talk that they might stay with others for the day."

Budari now had great difficulty controlling his laughter, for Aragorn had just told a classic Harad half-truth and done so with perfection. There was clearly a subtle reference to Gartabo’s intentions of confining elf and dwarf, but Budari seriously doubted that Aulit was going to recognize it. In fact, Aulit didn’t look like he was going to do much of anything in the near future. He seemed only moments away from toppling to the floor.

"Should we not begin?" Budari said when it seemed that Aulit could no longer speak. "I know there are issues of water rights along the Sihal that I would like to discuss here ere the night wanes."

Grasping onto procedural norms as a man sinking in quicksand might grasp a thrown rope, Aulit nodded hastily and backed away a step. "I would speak with you later on the subject of your seconds," he said to Aragorn and Eomer.

"As would we," Aragorn said, his eyes narrowing and his tone cooling with a jarring abruptness. Budari had never experienced snow, but he decided that it was probably about the temperature of Aragorn’s voice. "There were strange rumors abroad tonight, and we have many questions," the king of Gondor continued. His look turned hard and he pinned Aulit with a stare that immediately reminded Budari of the servants of Sauron. "Also, your guards at the doors seemed…disappointed when we arrived. Almost as though they were expecting something. If you guards seek to assuage their disappointment, I suggest they look somewhere other than Rohan and Gondor."

It was not possible for Aulit to get any paler, but he did shiver slightly ere turning away hurriedly. Inclining his head in the direction of both Eomer and Aragorn, Budari silently praised them for their skills a verbal warfare and then moved toward his seat.

Before lowering himself into the chair, the leader of Lotessa paused briefly to run his eyes over the other delegates, attempting to gauge the general mood. There was much tension in the air, of that there could be no doubt, and more than a few suspicious glances were tossed in the direction of Aragorn and Eomer. But Budari sensed that the hostility he felt was not directed at the kings of Gondor and Rohan. At least not yet. It still lingered on the elf and dwarf, which was only natural considering that they were not men. _It seems we shall have much to do both tonight and tomorrow if we wish to preserve the lives of Legolas and Gimli_ , Budari sighed as he took his seat.

By now, Aulit seemed to have composed himself and was calling for silence. After a minute or so, the hushed conversations around the room died away as other delegates sat down. When all had found their chairs, it quickly became apparent that someone was missing. And there could be no doubt as to whom that someone was. Budari cursed silently. This was not entirely unusual for the second night of the Gathering, but in light of all that had happened so far, it was certainly not a comforting development.

"Do any here know the whereabouts of Dashnir?" Aulit asked. "For I would begin as soon as possible."

A few long-suffering sighs could be heard about the table and Budari rubbed his temples. Khurintu had no concept of punctuality after the first night o the Gathering, almost making it their duty to arrive late for every meeting that they attended. It was actually something of a recent occurrence, but neither Budari nor any of his contacts had ever quite figured out why they started doing this. Ten years ago, when Sauron still reigned, the Khurintu tribe was among the first to be seated. But ever since Mordor’s fall, Khurintu had been coming later and later. It was beginning to be something of a joke among the other tribes, but tonight, the development was far from humorous.

"Let us begin without them," Budari finally said as the minutes began to stretch on. "Asbad is not in attendance and I see no need to wait on a second who thinks to take his leader’s place."

"The views of Lotessa concerning Khurintu are known," Aulit said coolly. "You may be impatient, Budari, but the rest of us shall wait."

"With respect, I must disagree," another voice said and Budari frowned as he glanced over at Khesva, the leader of the Soltari tribe. "We have broken tradition already in allowing a second to attend this meeting. I see no reason why that second should now dictate the times of our discussions."

Aulit blinked, clearly not expecting Soltari to stand against Khurintu. Fastahn might have aided Lotessa with bits of information, but now it seemed that Soltari was going one step further. Budari felt a flash of pity for Aulit as his expression changed to something akin to that of a caged animal, but the pity quickly died. Aulit had brought this upon himself by refusing to cast Dashnir from the council. He would have to deal with the consequences of his actions.

Fortunately, though, Aulit was saved from having to respond to Khesva. Half a moment later, the doors at the north end of the room were pushed upon, and Dashnir entered, looking rather upset. Somewhere in Budari’s mind, a warning bell sounded. He did not know the cause of the warning, but he was not one to be caught unprepared even if he did not have all the answers. His senses went on alert, one hand drifted near his sword, and he pushed his chair back slightly in the event that he would have to rise quickly. It was now up to Khurintu to make the first move. _As it usually is_ , Budari thought bitterly. _But until we know more, we cannot anticipate them._

"You come late," Aulit noted, his normally placid voice touched with anger.

"I do indeed come late, and there is good reason for my tardiness. I have just been informed of disturbing tidings," Dashnir answered. "They say the Destroyer was seen within these hallowed halls this evening and that he met with you, honored one. What say you to this?"

There was silence for a few seconds and then half of the inner hall erupted into demands for an explanation. Apparently the news of the Destroyer’s second appearance had not made it to all the tribes, and Budari wondered exactly how Aulit would handle this. He had been planning to confront the Gartabo tribesman himself and extract a firsthand account of the conversation, but it appeared that such an interrogation might no longer be necessary.

"Silence!" Aulit was shouting, but it did no good. His suspicions on the rise, Budari swept his keen eyes around the table and watched as the chaos in the room began to grow. And right in the thick of it all was Dashnir. He had joined his voice to those who clamored for information, and Budari was beside himself with frustration as he attempted to decipher Khurintu’s game. The Destroyer’s evening appearance was certainly not news to Dashnir, but he acted as though it confused and dismayed him, which was something rarely seen from a tribesman of Khurintu. In all things they hid their emotions, showing only a veneer of strength and control. Yet now Dashnir played the part of a horrified victim, and Budari did not like the implications. Something had happened or was about to happen, but he had no idea as to what that something was.

"Aulit, we of the tribes of Harad demand to be told what the Destroyer did when he met with you!" Dashnir cried out as he stood behind his chair at the table. "As the officiator of this Gathering, we look to you to hold order and peace. Yet you have failed in this, or so we deem. Have you been marked by the Destroyer? Speak, or Khurintu withdraws now!"

"Enough!" Aulit all but screamed. "I shall tell you." The room quieted slightly at this, and sensing that he now had their attention, Aulit repeated himself. "I shall tell you of what happened this evening. But I beseech you to refrain from drawing conclusions, for as is the case with many things, the Destroyer was cryptic and confusing."

"He spoke to you?!" someone exclaimed.

"If you wish to hear the tale, then be silent!" Aulit snapped, reaching the end of his patience. Budari blinked, wondering just how stressful the situation was becoming for Gartabo. He had never seen Aulit lose his temper like this.

"Aulit, the Khurintu tribe requests the right to speak when you are finished," Dashnir said, still refusing to take his seat. "For we have counseled among ourselves and have come to a conclusion that must be shared as soon as possible."

Aulit hesitated even as Budari’s heart leaped into his throat, and then to the dismay of the Lotessa tribe’s leader, he nodded. "It shall be so," Aulit sighed. "The time is yours when I have finished. Listen well, then, for I will tell this tale only once."

The silence in the hall became so thick that one could cut it with a knife, and as Aulit began to relate the story of the Destroyer’s appearance and his words, Budari caught a brief look of victory upon Dashnir’s face. It was gone quickly, replaced by an expression of anxiety and fear, but Budari was certain of his eyes. And glancing once at Aragorn and Eomer, he noted that they also had seen the flash of triumph. Their eyes were narrowed and when not looking at Aulit, they were studying Dashnir.

__

And so the sand runs deep this night, Budari noted as he turned his attention back to Aulit. _I pray we do not flounder, for whatever Khurintu has planned, I sense that it is upon us._

* * * *

The moon was pale and the stars dim as they floated over the desert. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a sign that was yet to be given. The men left behind to guard the camps that surrounded Haradhur spoke to one another with hushed voices, suspicious of the eerie silence and fearful of what it might portend. Horses neighed and stomped their feet in restless agitation, and their human masters could only echo their concerns. Something was happening. Something that spoke of shadows and death.

The silence was broken with a shattering abruptness. On the far western side of Haradhur, a single horn rang out in warning, sounding loud and clear as it trumpeted its message to all that would listen. Voices suddenly rose up, and the ring of steel carried far over the sand. From there the chaos spread, washing across the desert and spreading out around Haradhur until it surrounded the city. Well ordered camps became madness as swift horses descended from the desert wilderness, bearing cloaked riders with swords that glowed red in the moonlight. No quarter was asked and no quarter was given. The riders simply attacked everything and anything without care for what it was that bore the brunt of their fury. To every camp around Haradhur the riders came, and the silent desert was soon a bedlam of frenzied defenses and ringing horns.

Caught in the middle of the chaos, the patrolling riders of Rohan and Gondor sought to control their mounts and regroup, not knowing what went forth save that it heralded no good for their cause. In a sea of confusion, they became the eye of the storm, and having pulled together, two were sent back to Haradhur to inform their kings of what went forth in the desert. The rest stayed to make sense of madness and mount some form of counterattack, if such a thing could be contrived in time to meet the threat. But the attacking raiders were swift and tarried not but flitted as shadows beneath the moonlight. It was next to impossible to form any kind of organized resistance against such a sortie.

And while the camps without Haradhur fought for their lives, a small group of men carrying two burdens fled northeast into the night.

* * * *

Imhran, captain of Gondor’s guard and temporary second-in-command, had decided that he did not like politics. He had endured his share of them while moving up the chain of command under Denethor’s stewardship and had never cared for the discreet arm-twisting and quiet backbiting that seemed to be inevitable consequences of political maneuvering. He had once wondered if such policies were somewhat exclusive to Gondor, given the kingdom’s tumultuous history. He knew that Rohan had the treachery of Wormtongue to speak of, but Wormtongue was a product of outside machinations. And while there was certainly competitiveness within the Rohirrim and a drive to rise in the ranks, their promotions seemed to be based more on merit rather than on rich relatives who held the ear of one’s commanding officer.

But Imhran knew better now. In speaking with Arhelm throughout the night, he had come to realize that there was a substantial amount of networking within the Rohirrim as well. And in dealing with the Haradrim, he had come to realize that the politics of Gondor were actually rather tame.

"The Portu tribe is agitated about something," a voice suddenly spoke behind Imhran. He managed to refrain from jumping, but his hand did go to the hilt of his sword as he turned. He relaxed as soon as he saw who it was, but the encounter served as a rather grim reminder that the Portu tribe was not alone in its agitation.

"How do you know this, Arhelm?" Imhran asked.

The captain of Rohan’s guard glanced over his shoulder and grimaced. "I have just finished speaking with a member of Portu’s advisory council. King Eomer asked if I would follow up on a trade deal in studs that he had brokered with Radarad, Portu’s tribal leader. I have done so and things seem to be favorable as far as that is concerned, but it seemed to me that all the members of the Portu tribe were…preoccupied. They kept looking about as though fearful of being seen. I did not understand it, and when I casually mentioned that they appeared anxious, they became even more agitated."

"Strange," Imhran murmured. "I have sensed nothing of that sort. Many of the delegates are anxious, and that seems quite natural given that a nightmare out of their ancient legends has now appeared twice. But no one is unduly upset. What do you suppose is affecting Portu?"

"Perhaps Portu is a more superstitious tribe than others," Arhelm offered, though he seemed rather reluctant to believe his own theory."

"Perhaps," Imhran murmured.

"Good evening, honored ones," a new voice said quietly, and once again, Imhran found himself repressing the urge to jump and draw his sword. He wondered how everyone was managing to sneak up on him so easily this night.

"How go your negotiations, Arabano?" he asked, turning to the second-in-command from the Lotessa tribe.

"Well enough, all things considered, but Arhelm has noticed what I have noticed. The Portu tribe is anxious. They fear something."

"Are they an overly superstitious tribe?" Arhelm asked, following up on his idea.

"In many ways, yes, they are," Arabano answered, his voice soft and thoughtful. "But not to this extent. If the Destroyer had confronted one of them, I might understand this behavior. But he did not. It is strange, and I do not like this."

"Think you that this anxiety has something to do with the plot to take Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli?" Imhran questioned. "For I cannot see a connection myself, but that does not rule out the existence of a link."

"Nay, it does not. I, also, see no connection, but my instincts tell me otherwise," Arabano said. "My instincts say rather that these things are related and that all things go back to Khurintu."

"It was Portu that attacked us while in the desert," Arhelm reminded them. "And according to both King Elessar and King Eomer, Khurintu and Warra were behind that attack."

"And Portu was the tribe spreading the rumors about what the Destroyer intended when he confronted the elf," Arabano sighed. "Yet all of these things are well in the past as far as the others Haradrim are concerned. Why does Portu possess this sudden fear now? It is almost as if…" Arabano trailed off and frowned, his attention being drawn to a growing commotion near one of the doors. "Know you what goes forth there?"

Imhran shook his head and stepped forward, sensing Arhelm move in behind him should cover be needed. "Can you see what is happening?"

"Men are entering the hall," Arabano murmured. He watched for a moment and then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Nay, not just men. Guards. Guards who would have been left to watch the camps during the night. There are guards from Soltari, Warra, Gartabo, Indro…" He suddenly moved forward and raised his hand, calling aloud in the language of Harad.

"I do not like this, Imhran," Arhelm stated, his voice tight with impatience.

"Steady for but a moment," Imhran counseled his Rohirrim companion, watching the growing chaos closely. "I doubt not but what we shall have our answers presently."

"If we do not, then I—"

"Captain Arhelm!"

Arhelm blinked and frowned as two of Rohan’s riders pushed their way through the crowd. Stunned for only a moment, he quickly went to meet them, leaving Imhran to follow hastily in his wake. "What news?" he demanded.

"Captain, the camps in the desert are under attack," one of the riders reported. "Horsemen came from the west, armed with sword and spear. Their numbers are not many, or so we think, but they seem skilled at causing great confusion. They rampage all over the desert surrounding Haradhur."

"A siege," Imhran hissed, remembering well the siege of Minas Tirith.

"Nay, I think not, sir," the second rider said with a shake of his head. "They appeared to have no interest in the city. To me, it seemed as though their only objective was to create havoc, and they are achieving their objective well."

"Who are they?" Arhelm asked. "Have you any guesses?"

"We saw no badges or emblems that might signify their tribe. However, they did ride their—"

"Honored ones, I trust you have heard the news from your riders?" Arabano interrupted, appearing at Arhelm’s side.

"We did," Imhran said. "Do your guards know who these attackers might be?"

"They do not," Arabano said, glancing back at the men who flanked him and now waited for commands. "They say were veiled by scarves that carried no symbols, and the colors belonged to none of the tribes in the desert."

"Sir, I believe I might know who they are," Arhelm’s rider spoke up. "Remember you the peculiar way in which the Portu raiders sat their horses when they attacked our camp in the desert? These riders were mounted similarly. If they are not of the same tribe, then they were almost certainly trained by the same tribe."

"Portu?" Arhelm questioned.

"It would explain their unease here at the Gathering," Imhran murmured.

"Portu would not dare attack the other tribes," Arabano said flatly. "Such a move is beyond them. Their way is the coward’s way. They wait until an opening presents itself, they attack, and then they slink back into their hovels and hidden lakes. There are too many powers here in Haradhur for them to even think about staging a raid. Such an attack would be suicide if it were discovered."

"But since they carry no markings, such an attack will not be discovered," Arhelm argued. "It must be Portu."

"But they would have nothing to gain from this," Arabano shot back, frustration growing in his weathered face.

"That we know of," Imhran said. "But this conversation can wait until such time as we have the leisure to debate this. We must instead focus upon what should be done now. How fare our men in the desert?" he asked, directing his question to the two riders of Rohan.

"We have grouped together, sir, and the attackers seem to sweep around us since we are an organized threat, but they are doing much damage in the other camps," one answered.

"King Elessar and King Eomer must be told of this," Arhelm said.

"That may be easier said than done," Arabano cautioned. "The inner Gathering is sacrosanct. None interrupt it until the leaders throw open the doors."

"Surely exceptions have been made!" Arhelm protested in disbelief.

"Very rarely, and only in extreme circumstances," Arabano said.

"But if Portu is behind this raid and is working under the direction of Khurintu, then they have spread their war beyond Gondor and Rohan to all of Harad," Imhran pointed out. "Surely that warrants an extreme circumstance."

"It is a circumstances of which only our three powers are aware," Arabano answered. "The other tribes would not understand the ramifications if our guesses prove true, for they have not the necessary information. But you are right," he continued quickly before Imhran and Arhelm could interrupt. "We must try to inform the leaders, and I suspect that if we act, other tribes will join us in attempting to interrupt the inner Gathering. For an attack is rather unprecedented, especially at the Gathering. But I would counsel that we focus our efforts on the desert rather than on the inner hall at the moment. I judge we shall be more successful outside Haradhur."

Imhran nodded and turned his attention back to the riders of Rohan. "One of us shall remain and seek to inform our kings while the other returns with you to give aid to Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli. What manner of counterstrike were they organizing when last you left them?"

The two riders looked at one another, obviously confused. "We thought that Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli were here," one said. "They were not among our company when we left."

Imhran felt his stomach drop, and Arhelm stiffened. "They never arrived?" Imhran asked as a shiver went up his spine. "They were sent to join you in the desert several hours ago."

"They never came."

Silence reigned supreme within their small group while loud voices clamored around them. "I will ride out to our men," Arhelm said at length. "They will need more guidance than what their current leaders can give. Eos, stay with Captain Imhran and report to King Eomer when he emerges. Vintred, you are with me."

"If it will hasten things, my horse is outside this hall, sir," Eos said. "You may take him, for his legs are still fresh and his endurance is good."

"Then I shall do so," Arhelm said. "Valar be with you, Imhran, and I pray you can bring King Eomer and King Elessar to us quickly. I feel we shall be in need of their guidance."

"Valar be with us all," Imhran whispered as Arhelm and Vintred hastened away. He then turned to Arabano, who had just finished giving orders to his own men, and inclined his head. "Shall we see about rousing those above us in authority?"

"It will be a difficult task, yet we shall manage it," Arabano said, moving toward one of the doors to the inner halls, which was guarded by a soldier from Gartabo. "The Khurintu tribe is not the only power in this desert."

* * * *

Eomer had never been a great fan of meetings. He endured them well enough when necessary, but they almost always left him feeling frustrated and drained. His strength lay upon the battlefield, and though Eomer had a great talent for reading the thoughts behind men’s faces, he did not have the talent to put this knowledge to use. Words came easily in the form of jests and taunts intended to rattle one’s sparring partner, but the delicate dance of diplomacy was something he’d always left to Eowyn.

Nevertheless, Eomer had learned over the years to hold his own in a debate. He had become a passable orator, he’d discovered that his intuitive knowledge of what a man was really thinking could actually be quite useful, and he’d improved his logical analysis to the point where he could follow practically any political tangle, though not necessarily unravel it. But this did not make meetings any more enjoyable than before, and it was times like this when Eomer remembered exactly why he loathed them so much.

After Aulit had related what the Destroyer had said to him, there had been many questions and much discussion. Various interpretations were quickly debated, and Eomer watched from the sidelines as insult after insult was heaped upon elves and dwarves. He’d longed to rush in and defend his friends, but a warning look from Aragorn had held him back. Now was the time to listen and learn. It was something Eomer understood, but he didn’t like it. And he liked it even less now.

Eventually, Aulit had refused to answer any more questions, and the final conclusion was that the Destroyer’s words were too vague to be interpreted specifically. But they probably referred to Legolas and Gimli. Then Dashnir had reminded them all that he had been promised the opportunity to speak. That had been at least two hours ago, if not more. And Dashnir was still going at it.

He’d begun by lauding the accomplishments of the Khurintu tribe and their honorable reputation throughout Harad. Then he had begun speaking of the years during Sauron’s reign when an endless stream of supplies had come down from Mordor and young men had be taken away and trained by the best tutors that Middle Earth had to offer. Eomer had found it difficult to restrain himself during this part, but once again, Aragorn’s look held him back. Not that Eomer would have been able to do anything anyway. Once a delegate had obtained the floor, another could speak only if that delegate yielded. And Dashnir did not seem inclined to yield in the near future.

After speaking of Sauron’s rule, Dashnir had spoken of the fall of Harad, its gradual decline into obscurity, and then the shadow of Gondor and Rohan looming over all. He had then accused Aragorn and Eomer of bringing destruction and ruin upon Harad, mincing no words and directly confronting them but still denying them the time to refute his attacks. It was not long before Eomer’s blood was boiling through his veins, and his hand clasped the hilt of his sword firmly. He did not know how long he could restrain himself in the face of such slander. Judging from his hard eyes and tight jaw, Eomer judged that Aragorn was having similar problems.

"Enough of this!" Budari suddenly broke in when there was a slight lull in the speech. Eomer relaxed slightly with Lotessa’s interruption. He did not relax very much, but he did calm enough to note just how tense the inner hall had become. "Dashnir, you have wearied our ears for hours now," Budari continued. "You have insulted guests that we have invited here. Yet nowhere have you indicated a purpose to this absurdity. Come to the point, if you indeed have one. Or is Khurintu unable to save its honor by traditional means and must now resort to wordplay instead?"

"I do not recognize your comments, honored one," Dashnir answered with a slight hiss, "for I have yet to give up my place on the floor. You have spoken out of turn. The time is still mine and I shall do with it that which I see fit to do."

"Budari is right," Aulit said. "You have no purpose in this talk that I can see and this Gathering has other things to discuss."

"While we are debating the duration of Dashnir’s speech, may I request a bit of time for a rebuttal when he does yield?" Aragorn suddenly said. "And a bit of time for Rohan, as well."

"Honored ones, I say to you again that I have yet to give up my time here," Dashnir broke in. "I still hold the floor. As for my purpose, it is to convince you all of the evil that sits before you."

"And what about this evil?" Eomer demanded, unable to keep silent any longer. "I cannot vouch for the others, but I know that I have listened to the evil speak for far too long. I respectfully request that it sit down and allow its superiors to have a word or two."

Something about the way that Aragorn shifted in his chair informed Eomer that he had probably made the situation worse, but the twitch of Aragorn’s lips indicated that the king of Gondor heartily applauded the outburst. Whatever the case, it had certainly made Eomer feel better and was thus well worth it in his eyes.

"You were not recognized," Dashnir said, glaring daggers at the king of Rohan. "Not only that, but you have dared insult he who holds the floor."

"As you have insulted him?" Budari interrupted. "Dashnir, yield your place. I grow weary of this. You are not Asbad. You are not a leader. Allowing you to even participate here is a breach of tradition. I will not allow you to make a mockery of this Gathering."

"You, honored Budari, are the mockery and I will—"

"Quiet, both of you," Aulit broke in. "Budari, I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. And Dashnir, you have spoken for several hours but have managed to say very little. Are you finished?"

Dashnir drew himself up, his eyes flashing, but before he could even open his mouth, one of the doors opened and a Gartabo guard entered, shutting the door behind him quickly but not before the sounds of a great commotion without could be heard.

"Speak," Aulit commanded as murmurs began to rise within the room.

"Arabano of Lotessa wishes to speak to the honored Budari," the guard said quietly. "Also, Imhran of Gondor wishes to speak with the honored King Elessar and Eos of Rohan wishes to speak with the honored King Eomer."

"Noted," Aulit said, turning his attention to Dashnir. "Do you yield so that we may decide whether or not to adjourn?"

"I do not yield for I have yet to finish," Dashnir answered angrily. "And now if you will allow me to…" The delegate from Khurintu paused and glared at a door across from him as yet another Gartabo guard entered, once again exposing the gathered leaders to the sounds of chaos and rising voices. "One might think this was contrived to prevent me from warning you of the imminent destruction," Dashnir muttered.

"Speak," Aulit said, ignoring Dashnir.

"Fastahn of Soltari wishes to speak with the honored Khesva and Sarot of Indro wishes to speak with the honored Varilya."

"My pardon then, honored ones, but I shall be leaving you," Budari said, rising to his feet.

"As shall I," Eomer seconded. Aragorn also rose, clearly indicating his intention to depart.

"Leaders cannot leave until all decide to adjourn the session!" Dashnir cried out. "Already you defile us with your foreign ways."

"I was the first to rise," Budari answered, his voice quiet but laced with steel. "You need not blame Gondor and Rohan. And Arabano would not summon me except under dire circumstances. Therefore I shall take my leave of you and depart. It is my hope, given the noise we have just heard beyond these walls, that others shall follow in my footsteps."

"And by your interpretation, Dashnir, you would also be able to leave if you so desired it, for you said that _leaders_ must stay. You do not fall into that category," Eomer added with a slight smile even as he felt Aragorn’s hand come down on his shoulder in warning.

"Forgive us for this break in protocol, but as Dashnir has already noted, we are not of this land," Aragorn said, pulling Eomer away from the table with a slight tug. "And I like not the words that have been said this night. Therefore we shall depart to see what goes forth beyond this inner hall."

"As shall I," Khesva of Soltari announced, rising from his seat. "My apologies to those I leave behind as well as my condolences. May the remainder of Dashnir’s speech prove more entertaining than the first part."

"I warn you for your own good!" Dashnir cried. "You do not see the danger. This is but another ruse! This—"

But Dashnir was interrupted again by yet another opening door. But this time, instead of a Gartabo guard, Arabano, Imhran, and Eos stepped in, breaking one of the most sacred and respected customs of the Gathering by doing so.

"Honored ones, forgive the intrusion as I know it goes against tradition, but the news I bring is grave. And in good faith, I could not allow you to remain ignorant of it," Arabano said, his voice hard and filled with something akin to accusation as his eyes flickered once over Dashnir. Eomer’s instincts, already jumping, began setting up a deafening clamor in his mind and he felt both Budari and Aragorn stiffen next to him.

"Speak," Aulit said after a deathly silence, glaring slightly at Dashnir out of the corner of his eye while sending a similar look in the general direction of Budari, Aragorn, and Eomer. "We will hear what you have to say."

"Honored ones, I request that this session of the Gathering adjourn immediately and that we outside be allowed to speak with our leaders."

A low murmur rose up inside the hall, and Eomer heard Aragorn’s breath catch slightly. "What is happening?" the king of Rohan hissed. "What does this mean?"

"I know not, but have your sword ready," Aragorn answered. "I fear that it might be needed quickly."

"It has been ready since we first set food in Harad," Eomer assured him.

"For what reason do you make this request?" Aulit demanded of Arabano, his tone of voice indicating that Arabano had better come to the point and do so quickly.

"Because leadership is needed elsewhere rather than here," Arabano answered. "A traitor among us has brought war to this Gathering. The camps in the desert are under attack."

"The Destroyer!" Dashnir cried. "Do you see now? You must! Only the blind could not see it! Gondor and Rohan have brought death upon us all!"

"I have heard enough of this!" Eomer exploded, ignoring Aragorn’s warning look. "There is no evidence that indicates we have—"

"Then you are truly ignorant," Dashnir interrupted coldly. "And since it seems I will no longer be allowed to finish saying what I came to say, I shall conclude with this: The Khurintu tribe withdraws from the Gathering as of this night. We shall not be caught in the path of the Destroyer. We shall not be party to Harad’s own destruction. Since you have failed to listen to reason, you give us no choice. Whatever counsels you take must needs be taken without us, for our entire tribe shall leave tomorrow as soon as the sun touches the horizon."

* * * *

Legolas was first aware of voices—harsh voices—calling out in a strange tongue. Confused for a moment, the elf wondered if perhaps he’d been severely injured and could no longer interpret speech, but after a few more minutes of listening to the talk of those around him, he recognized it as the common language of Harad. This realization was a source of great relief at the same time that it raised fears, concerns, and the blurred memory of his last moments of consciousness.

A sudden surge of nausea from his stomach alerted his senses and informed him that the waking process was now firmly underway. Along with this nausea came other sensations. His entire body ached as though he had been beaten severely by a family of orcs, and the elf decided that this was probably not far from the truth. His hands and feet also felt rather numb, a strange sensation that immediately caught his curiosity. A slight attempt to move them resulted in throbbing pain, and the elf quickly realized that strong bonds held his wrists firmly behind his back and secured his ankles tightly together. The prince would have further analyzed these restraints, but he suddenly found himself lifted into the air by rough hands, maneuvered about, and taken into a darker world. Then he was falling. Slamming into the ground, Legolas choked back a grunt of surprise and tried to maintain the illusion that he was still unconscious. About this time, he also realized—rather belatedly and with some amazement—that his eyes were closed. He must have been hit hard during the attack; otherwise his eyes would have remained open. That theory would also explain the incessant pounding in the back of his head, where it felt like Gimli’s entire troop of dwarves from Aglarond had taken up residence and were beating away with hammer and chisel.

__

Gimli!

The nausea intensified as blind grief overwhelmed Legolas, and he struggled to hold back the sobs that suddenly tore at his throat. A cold, numbing sensation crept over him, and elven strength ebbed away as his mind was consumed by sorrow. Gimli was gone, and the elf saw no reason why he should continue to struggle. Death would be far preferable to this crippling anguish that ripped through his immortal heart.

A muffled thud next to the elf somehow alerted his grief-stricken thoughts, and Legolas cracked his eyes open a bit. He no longer cared what went on in the world around him, but if he was given an opportunity to kill one of the dwarf’s murderers, he wanted to take it. But what he saw froze him to the very core of his being.

How he kept from crying out, he did not know. Somehow he managed to keep silent and maintain the charade of unconsciousness, but his mind and thoughts were now filled with the blinding light of hope. Gimli had been thrown to the ground next to him. From what little the elf could see, the dwarf was very still, his face was far too pale, the crude bandage wrapped around his injured right leg was soaked through with blood, and he was bound as Legolas was. But aside from all this, there was one small detail above all else that captured the elf’s rapt attention to the point of reducing all complaints and all complications to trivial irritants—Gimli was breathing.

The dwarf was still alive.

The voices were speaking again, and Legolas quickly closed his eyes, his mental faculties struggling to recover from the shock of first grief and now hope. He felt someone move above him and then came a sharp tugging at his arms. The elf guessed they were checking his bindings for strength, and his guess was confirmed when the procedure was repeated with his legs. More words were spoken in the strange language of the Harad people, and then the voices drifted away, fading quickly and causing the elf to frown. Unless these men were possessed of an inhuman ability for speed—something Legolas was almost ready to believe given what he now knew of the Khurintu tribe—he should still be able to hear them. It was almost as if…

The elf groaned as realization struck him. _Ú-glîr_. They had placed him beneath _ú-glîr_. No wonder the surrounding world had seemed so foreign and distant. And no wonder he had not heard Gimli’s labored breathing before now. Fortunately, he could still remember most of the adjustments that _ú-glîr_ required of him and he put those into play now. The first step was to keep his mind occupied, and he did this by immediately turning his full attention to the dwarf and the situation. He needed to discover where he was and he needed to examine Gimli, but he wished to do so without interference. Forcing himself to be patient, Legolas lay quiet for a few minutes more and made certain that he was alone, using his diminished senses to search for any sign that a guard had been left. When he could find nothing to indicate another’s presence, he deemed it to be safe—a rather relative term—and with great caution, he eased his eyes open again.

Once more exercising great restraint, Legolas ignored his first impulse to immediately inspect Gimli and instead tried to determine their situation. He found that they had been placed in a small, white tent. It was still night and there was almost no illumination save for the light of the moon that glimmered dimly upon one tent wall. But the lack of light was not too great a hindrance, for even beneath _ú-glîr_ , Legolas’s eyes could make out more in the darkness than could the eyes of a man. Unfortunately, what he could see did not comfort him. There were no rugs to cover the floor of this meager shelter, and elf and dwarf lay on sand made cold by the desert night. Beyond that, if the moonlight was any indication, then the tent had been pitched so that its broadest sides would catch the full glare of the sun. It was going to be a hot day.

Legolas shivered slightly, fighting the chill that rose up from the cold ground and managed to soak through the layers of his tunic to attack his chest. Things did not look good. Wherever they’d stopped, it was doubtless far from the Haradhur encampment. And if their attackers had traveled quickly enough, the city was probably beyond the range of mortal sight. This meant that should he and Gimli escape, they would be lost. Legolas sighed, feeling himself succumb to the hopelessness of it all, and then firmly turned his mind to other matters. There was still Gimli to see to.

Worm-like, ignoring the protests of his battered body, Legolas maneuvered himself closer to the comatose dwarf and studied his friend. Last night’s blow to Gimli’s head worried him most. The strike had been strong enough to stun an oliphaunt, and Gimli had gone down immediately without a cry. After that, Legolas’s memory of events turned into an impossible fog. He’d known great fury and had fought desperately to reach his friend, but how he’d been subdued and taken was something he could not remember, try as he might.

Legolas shook his head, instantly regretted doing so, and brought himself firmly back to the present. He had to check Gimli. The dwarf’s health was his first priority. A head wound like that could still be fatal, and there was the injured leg to consider as well.

The ensuing examination was severely hampered by the fact that both of them were securely trussed, and Legolas was eventually forced to give up after having learned little. He rolled onto his side with a frustrated groan and continued to scrutinize his best friend. Gimli’s breathing was steady but rapid, and it was far too shallow for the elf’s liking. In addition to that, the dwarf showed no signs of stirring and no signs of awareness. His pallor was a sickly gray and his flesh was clammy to the touch. Legolas did not think the wound on the dwarf’s leg was still bleeding, but it was impossible to tell how severe the injury was or how it might affect the dwarf in the future. And if infection set in…

"Gimli?"

The elf’s soft voice received no response. In truth, Legolas hadn’t really expected anything, but it had done no harm to try. Rolling off his side and back onto his stomach, the elf pushed himself against Gimli’s motionless form, hoping to transfer some of his own body heat to the dwarf. He didn’t know what he would do once the day warmed and Gimli began suffering from the soaring temperatures, but for now, Legolas could at least do something to treat the chill that crept up from the sand.

" _Dartho ah nin, elvellon_ ," Legolas whispered fiercely to the dwarf who lay still as death against his side. " _Ú-bronion cuil aredh_."

If Gimli heard these words, spoken with ardent fervor from the elf’s anxious heart, he gave no sign. A brooding silence fell over the small tent, and having no other choice, Legolas reluctantly settled in for what promised to be a very long wait.

 

__

Dartho ah nin, elvellon. _Ú-bronion cuil aredh_ —Stay with me, elf-friend. I cannot endure life without you.

*******

** **

Character List   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

 

**  
Tribe List**  
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe  
 **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe  
 **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe  
 **  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe  
 **  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe  
 **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe


	25. Parts of Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"Dashnir did not hold the floor that long without reason," Eomer growled, his long legs struggling to keep up with the even longer legs of a Ranger. "He was expecting the interruption. It fit with his announcement that Khurintu was withdrawing. He delayed long enough so that the timing fit his agenda."

"I fear you are right, but what they hope to gain from this, I do not know," Aragorn murmured, quickening his pace even more. "There are too many possibilities to even begin analyzing them all."

"Be thankful that Dashnir has not yet managed to turn Harad against you," Arabano said quietly. "If the leaders at the Gathering had been convinced that this catastrophe was the result of your presence, you would not have left the hall alive."

Flanked by Imhran, Eos, and a small contingent of Lotessa guards, Aragorn, Eomer, and Arabano were making for the Gondor and Rohan encampment. Arabano and the soldiers from his tribe were there as insurance that they would actually be able to get to the camp and then get out. Though they had yet to be identified specifically as the cause of this sudden attack, the mood in Haradhur was definitely not one of peace toward Gondor and Rohan.

"I doubt that was his purpose," Aragorn said in response to Arabano. "He was but stalling. His words were not calculated to raise feelings of hatred. Rather, he was sowing seeds for something to come."

"But what is that something?!" Eomer demanded. "Nothing less than the subjugation of Rohan, Gondor, and Harad, clearly. But how shall such a thing be accomplished? He has only succeeded in ostracizing Khurintu from the rest of Harad."

"Exactly," Aragorn said, his mind whirling. This question had been plaguing him ceaselessly, and answers were forming but slowly. For some reason, his foresight seemed to be strangely absent and he could see and sense almost nothing of the future. In some ways, it reminded him very much of Amon Hen. Foresight had failed him then as well, and he had haplessly blundered his way through a series of hasty decisions. Somehow or another, through unexpected twists of fate that could only be ascribed to the benevolent intervention of the Valar, things had worked themselves out. But now…

One of the Lotessa guards suddenly called out in the Haradric language. Too caught up in his own thoughts, Aragorn failed to catch and translate the quick words, but there was no need to for the message soon became obvious soon became obvious. Arabano stopped short, pulling Aragorn and Eomer to a sudden halt, and then started into the dark alleyways to their left.

"Aragorn?"

"You know as much as I," Aragorn told Eomer even as a chill crept up his spine.

"Valar help us, then, if we both know so little," Eomer muttered.

"Honored ones?" Arabano called from the darkness. "This was one of your men, was it not?"

The question—and particularly the use of the past tense—evoked a number of reactions in Aragorn, though he somehow managed to keep them from reaching his outward countenance. Eomer, on the other hand, was not quite as composed and anger flared in his eyes as suspicion and outrage twisted his face. The king of Rohan took a step toward the alleys and then froze as Arabano returned with the Lotessa soldier who had first called out. And cradled in the arms of the soldier was a very bloody and very dead Gondor guard.

"Valar," Eomer breathed.

"This happened several hours ago," Arabano said quietly. "The body is cold."

"He had been left to guard the camp," Aragorn whispered, recognizing the man despite the mutilated face.

"I have no doubt but what we will find all of your guards in a similar condition," Arabano said. "I have seen this before. This work was done by the Khurintu tribe. Very few in Harad know of their talents and abilities in this area, but we of the Lotessa tribe can easily recognize a Khurintu murder. Would that others were so knowledgeable, for then we might share this with them."

"We shall have to consider that later, for now we must look to our own safety," Aragorn said as his eyes glittered in the darkness and his hand moved to Andúril’s hilt. The tents were now only a short distance away, and the night had become far too quiet for his comfort. There was no way to tell if any of the Khurintu tribe still remained in the camp, waiting for an opportunity to pick off more of Gondor’s men, but it was best not to take chances. "Arabano, split your guards into two units. Have half of them journey with Eomer to the far side of the camp," Aragorn whispered. "The rest will stay here with me. Eomer, signal when you are in position."

"Are we using the plan that we employed when we fought just south of Barad-dûr?" Eomer asked.

"The same."

"Splitting up may be exactly what they wish, honored ones," Arabano warned.

"If any yet remain in camp, I would rather flank them than give them an opportunity to run," Aragorn said grimly.

"Only remember that we are pressed for time," Eomer said. "Our men in the desert are under attack."

"Arhelm is there, and I have confidence in his ability as a commander. If he cannot strike against the raiders, he will keep the men safe from harm and do as much damage as possible," Aragorn answered, deciding that the attack beyond Haradhur was now of secondary importance. "We can do no more than can he. Rather, our presence is needed here. We must discover what has happened to our own camp."

"Think you that we will find Legolas and Gimli here?" Eomer asked, his tone doubtful.

"My heart wishes to believe there is a chance of that, but my instincts tell me otherwise," Aragorn sighed, drawing Andúril from its scabbard. "In truth, I do not believe anyone to be within the camp, but it is best not to rely solely upon fortune, for she is a fickle mistress."

"As we have learned many times over," Eomer sighed, drawing Guthwinë and moving off into the darkness. Eos followed his king, and the two paused once to wait for Arabano’s guards, who were quickly instructed to obey Eomer for the time being and follow his orders. Then they were gone, and the night grew quiet again.

"I trust you have some idea?" Arabano murmured.

"Naught but a very old plan, yet it has worked before," Aragorn answered, starting to creep forward. "Orcs become very confused when they are attacked from two different sides."

"We are not dealing with Orcs," Arabano pointed out.

"It sometimes has the same effect on men," Aragorn whispered as they neared the tent. Here he stopped and indicated that Arabano should stop as well. "We shall wait until Eomer signals he is in position," the king of Gondor explained. "Then we shall charge the main tent."

"This plan lacks something in the way of subtlety," Arabano hissed with a frown.

"Subtlety can be cumbersome. In situations like this, an outright attack is often the best," Aragorn replied with a ghost of a smile.

Apparently accepting this philosophy for the moment, Arabano sighed and said no more. Silence fell thick among them and the night seemed to grow darker. Time ticked away, and though Aragorn had been raised among the ever-patient elves, it seemed that every passing minute stretched into years. Behind him, the remainder of Lotessa’s guards shifted restlessly but held their peace, disciplined soldiers that they were. Sheltered in one of the other tents, a horse whinnied loudly, momentarily breaking the stillness, but then all was silent again. More time slipped past, and Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Eomer and the others had not met with some accident when the signal came. A shrill whistle echoed through the night, rising quickly and then fading away. Aragorn lifted his hand and he heard the guards behind him move closer. Letting his arm fall, the king started forward. He might have been a ghost for all the noise his movements made. Beside him, Arabano was nearly as silent, and as phantoms they all drifted toward the darkened structure of the main tent.

Taking a deep breath and preparing himself for the worst, Aragorn readjusted his grip upon Andúril and stepped to the tent’s tall flap that served as the main entrance. He could almost see Eomer taking similar actions on the other side at the smaller back door. Filling his lungs with air and feeding off the growing anticipation of the tribesmen behind him, Aragorn let out a yell and plunged inside. From the other side, Eomer echoed his cry and the tent shook as guards leaped forward through both entrances. They were brought up short by the scene before them.

One small lantern burned faintly in a corner, but for all that its light was dim, it revealed far too much. Packs were slashed open. Supplies lay scattered everywhere as though a great wind had come through. Rugs were torn and misplaced, seeming to have been knocked aside by a desperate struggle. But most disconcerting of all, large stains of blood could be seen on the carpets near the center of the tent.

"Khurintu," Eomer spat, moving further in and studying the damage with narrowed eyes. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his countenance was dark.

"Almost certainly," Aragorn said grimly, struggling to hold his own composure. Kneeling next to the bloodstains, he quickly examined the surrounding area in the hopes that he would learn whose blood had been spilt. A gleam against the tent wall caught his eye and he walked over to investigate. 

"Imhran, Eos, check the other tents and see if there are any signs of tampering or theft," Eomer ordered, his voice harsh with suppressed rage. Arabano motioned his men to follow the others, ensuring safety through numbers and they quickly departed. "What think you?" Eomer asked after the guards had left, directing his attention to Aragorn.

"I think they have done a thorough job," Aragorn sighed, standing and holding aloft the object he had found. "A dwarven axe. It bears the fresh blood of his foes. Unfortunately, I can find no evidence that the dwarf who owns this axe managed to escape."

"Then Gimli was taken captive," Eomer murmured. "But why here? They had ample opportunity to attack us in the streets. And why now? Wouldn’t waiting have better served Khurintu? They could have sat back and watched as we defied the Gartabo tribe and refused to allow them to take Legolas and Gimli."

"It seems they were seeking to gain a different objective," Aragorn murmured, looking around for other clues.

"There are always multiple objectives involved when working with Khurintu," Arabano said quietly, studying the tent with the wary scrutiny of a desert warrior. "I know not why they have chosen to make off with Legolas and Gimli or why they chose to attack now, but as for doing it here in the tent, I judge that they intended to show you your vulnerability."

"Is there hope that Legolas might have escaped?" Eomer asked, but his voice lacked any conviction.

"Not if Gimli was a prisoner. He would have refused to leave his side," Aragorn answered. "Besides that, his bow and quiver lie behind you, as well as his knife." The king of Gondor gripped the haft of Gimli’s axe tightly and firmly suppressed the rising tide of anger that threatened to burst through his calm veneer. "They fought valiantly, that much is certain. But they were overwhelmed by superior numbers, or so I read the signs." Aragorn glanced about the large tent and once again had to choke back his wrath. _What was it Gimli said to me just ere they departed? "None shall even know that we are gone." Little did he know how prophetic his words would prove to be. We knew nothing of this until it was too late._

"Think you that they still live?" Eomer asked, voicing the question that was currently burning through Aragorn’s mind.

"Their bodies are not to be seen, so they were probably not killed," Arabano spoke up. "Khurintu has a habit of making an example out of those they kill, as you saw earlier with your slain guard. But since there are no bodies here—or pieces of bodies—I suspect that they have been captured."

"Pieces of bodies?" Eomer echoed, fire flashing in his eyes.

"This links with the Destroyer," Aragorn muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he set the axe down. "This links with the fact that the _Iluh_ will see to the abominations, but I cannot grasp the connection."

"Perhaps Khurintu wishes to appear as messengers of the _Iluh_ ," Arabano suggested, his eyes dark with thought. "By controlling your friends, they control the abominations of the North."

"But why withdraw from the Gathering?" Aragorn asked, deciding that he would have a headache by morning. "If they had wished to prove their control, they would have stayed. Nay, they have something else in mind, but I cannot fathom what."

"It does not matter what they wish so long as we can put a stop to it," Eomer declared.

"In order to put a stop to it, we must first understand what they are trying to do and how they will go about doing it," Aragorn reasoned, though he felt very much like Eomer at the moment. He wished to charge into the night, seeking out the Khurintu tribe and demanding the return of the prince of Mirkwood and the lord of the Glittering Caves.

Eomer muttered something rather uncomplimentary beneath his breath, but he nodded reluctantly. "Very well, then. For the moment, let us do it your way. Why is Khurintu withdrawing from the Gathering? And what do they hope to gain by taking Legolas and Gimli with them?"

"Your friends were not killed here," Arabano said, speaking slowly as his eyes narrowed. "Therefore, Khurintu needs them alive for something. Somehow, the elf and dwarf will be of use to Asbad and Dashnir. But as for how or what…" He shook his head and trailed off. "One thing only do I know with certainty: When the Khurintu tribe takes prisoners, they do not take partial measures. Legolas and Gimli will not escape on their own."

Eomer swore softly and began to pace. "We know nothing and yet you would have us sit and ponder over our fates! There are several hours before dawn. I say it is time for action. Let us travel into the desert, rally our men, deal with the raiders, and then descend upon the Khurintu tribe."

"Would you confront Dashnir?" Arabano asked. "You would challenge his honor when he has a clear alibi. He was in the Gathering with both of you. And if you were to search the Khurintu camp, you would find no trace of your friends. Khurintu is too clever for that."

"They will have been taken away from Haradhur," Aragorn said. "Hence the attack. It was a distraction."

"Then let us follow them!" Eomer exclaimed.

"That will be easier said than done," Arabano warned. "They would have started several hours ago, giving them a good lead over you. Beyond that, you know not which direction they traveled. They may have gone in any number of directions. And as for the trail itself, you shall never find it if raiders have attacked the area outside of Haradhur. Their horses and paths shall make such a mess of tracks upon the ground that finding anything else will be an impossibility."

"I will not sit idle while my friends are held hostage," Eomer said heatedly.

"Nor will I, but we must not act in haste," Aragorn said, intervening before harsher words could be exchanged. "Arabano, would the men who took Legolas and Gimli be mounted?"

Arabano hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "I am uncertain, but they will probably travel on foot. At least initially. There are tribes here who keep careful track of the number of horses present at a Gathering in the event that anything like this should happen. Soltari and Portu are two of these tribes. No, the guards could not have taken horses. The camps will be the subject of much scrutiny this day as all attempt to learn the identity of the raiders, and the horses will be subject to inspection. If Khurintu does not have the same number of horses as it did when it first came here, then they are immediately suspect."

"On foot they will be easy to catch," Eomer pointed out.

"But only if we start in the right direction," Aragorn countered. "Still, you are correct, Eomer. We cannot sit idle in the face of this, but as for what we shall do in response, I am at a loss."

"Confront Khurintu!"

"You will be seen as reacting blindly if you do that," Arabano shouted, apparently coming to the end of his temper. "They will say that you are making assumptions based on Khurintu’s dislike of elf and dwarf. And then they will say that the Destroyer has taken your ability to reason and has marked you as either his agents of destruction or his next victims."

"Then if we cannot confront Khurintu, let us at least search for Legolas and Gimli," Eomer pressed, his voice indicating that Arabano was not the only one running out of patience. "We may take our riders, disperse the raiders, and then scour the desert. A trail might not be found, but then again, it might. We have three hours. Much can be accomplished in that time."

"The desert is vast, Eomer, and if these men are indeed on foot, they will be even harder to find," Aragorn said quietly. "But I see no better option," he said when Eomer began to protest again. "Come, then. We shall leave Imhran and Eos to watch the camp in our absence while we ride to the aid of our men. If three hours are all we have, we had best make use of them."

"Then I shall return to my own camp," Arabano said. "But I will seek information as I go and counsel with Budari when he returns from the desert. Doubtless I will come again during the day, and mayhap we shall make sense of madness."

"Mayhap," Aragorn said heavily, trying to regain control of his whirling mind. "Until then, Arabano. And may the _Iluh_ watch over you."

"And over our enemies," Eomer muttered, his hand tightening about Guthwinë’s hilt. "For I will have no mercy when I confront them, and the Valar only know who will."

* * * *

Mohart was not a man normally given to feelings of trepidation, yet there was great hesitation in his step as he approached Imrahil. One hour ago, their company had arrived at Lake Miyarr and discovered a few of Mohart’s tribesmen also camped around the hidden lake. Mohart had been rather surprised at this since Gartabo rarely ventured so far north, but even more surprising were the furtive looks upon the faces of these men. Their style of dress had revealed them to be members of what passed for a middle class in the Gartabo tribe or else Mohart might have thought they were fleeing some crime. But they were certainly fleeing something, and Mohart had gone to discover what he could. Their answers had been glib, vague, and filled with rumors, but one older man seemed to have a better grasp on the situation than the others, and it was through him that Mohart had gained a rather chilling picture of some very disturbing events.

Armed with news that would not be well received and painfully conscious of the fact that a response to bad news was usually to kill the messenger, Mohart stepped behind Imrahil and cleared his throat slightly. A soft sigh answered the sound and Imrahil turned slightly to fix gray eyes upon the tribesman. "We are too late."

It was neither a question nor a prediction of what Mohart had come to say but rather a simple statement illustrating a simple fact. They were too late and Imrahil knew it. How he knew it was something else entirely and Mohart was rather leery about pursuing that particular topic. Instead, he decided to find out what Imrahil knew and then expand on top of that. Then the news that the tribesman bore might not seem as though it was coming from him. "Why do you say this, honored one? What do you know?"

"Before this night, my dreams spoke of impending peril and my instincts insisted that a great danger was coming that must be avoided. But my instincts have quieted now, and as my mind begins to wander, no dreams have come to haunt me." Imrahil sighed and looked out across the desert. "Whatever we had hoped to prevent has happened."

"You say it has happened as though it is finished, but it is my experience in Harad that nothing ever _happens_ ," Mohart said. "If our fears are bearing out, then it is my belief that things are _still_ happening. Nothing is ever completely finished in the desert, honored one. Surely there is time remaining to us!"

"Perhaps," Imrahil murmured. "Indeed, I believe you to be right and that time does remain to us, but something that should have been avoided has happened. A grave threat has descended, and its consequences shall continue to play out until we arrive."

"Yet still there is time," Mohart insisted, wondering at Imrahil’s sudden despondency. "Honored one, are you well?"

Imrahil laughed quietly and shook his head. "Well? Nay, I am not well. I fear for my friends, and I fear that already we are too late to save them from much pain and much sorrow. But more than that, I miss the sea. I miss the waves. I miss the crash of the surf. I am something of a strange creature, Mohart, and this desert is telling upon my spirits. But you did not depart from your kinsmen to seek me out and inquire after my health," Imrahil said, swiftly changing the topic. "Come. What have you to say? What news do you bear?"

"Nothing good, honored one," Mohart said. "But perhaps you would rather here it this evening ere we depart. You are wearied and I—"

"We are one night’s ride away from Lake Nurnein, and after that we are one night’s ride away from Haradhur," Imrahil interrupted. "That is two nights in which I am given time to order an attack and unravel what political tangles I may find. If I am to effectively complete this work, I must know what you know, and I must know it now. And fear not for my health," he added with a slight smile. "A bit of elven blood runs through my veins, and at times it is able to keep me from weariness and other mortal failings that might be brought about by an extended journey. Now come and tell me of this ill news."

"Based on what my tribesmen have said, something odd has befallen the Gathering." Mohart grimaced slightly and tried to find words in Westron to explain himself. "My tribe controls lands in this region, and these men as well as others have been receiving messages by hawk since the Gathering began, more to be informed than for any other reason. But the messages they received at the end of last night spoke of a grave threat that had come to the desert, and the messages of this night are no better. They are fleeing north in the hopes that they may escape the storm."

"And of what storm do they speak?" Imrahil asked, his gray eyes narrow.

With a shiver and a sigh, Mohart decided that the best way to approach this was to simply get it out into the open. "Honored one, know you of the Destroyer?"

Imrahil’s face remained impassive, but something flickered briefly in his eyes, though it was gone too quickly to identify. "I have heard some of the legends regarding the Destroyer. He was a tool of Sauron, if I am not mistaken."

"So some say, though we know not if all the appearances were Sauron’s will," Mohart said. "The Destroyer is a creature of legends and a messenger of the _Iluh_ , or the Valar. He heralds death for large groups of people, sometimes for entire tribes."

"What has he to do with the Gathering?" Imrahil pressed, a slight note of impatience creeping into his voice that was very much at odds with his elven heritage.

"He appeared and confronted your elven friend," Mohart answered. "Or so say the messages. There are rumors now that Gondor and Rohan have brought destruction to Harad. And the messages that came this morning tell of a great battle outside Haradhur."

"How certain are these sources?" Imrahil asked, his voice sharp.

"Nothing is ever certain if it has not been witnessed by one’s own eyes," Mohart replied. "But the men report that many messages have come from many unrelated sources. Beyond that, the Destroyer is not a being mentioned lightly or in jest. If word of him has come, we may be assured that he has again appeared, though the manner of his appearance may be a subject of some debate."

Imrahil cursed quietly and turned his eyes away from Mohart, focusing them instead upon the waters of Lake Miyarr. "Two more nights," he murmured. "Two more nights until we can reach them." He turned back to Mohart, his gray eyes darkening with suppressed anger. "Know you of any way to speed the journey? Perhaps we can bypass Lake Nurnein and seek another place of water, shortening the ride to Haradhur in the process."

"There are places of water within the Sihal, but they appear sporadically and if we missed one, it might take us several hours to find another. Only those who are very familiar with the volcanic Sihal dare to trust to its shelter. If we had a guide from the Warra tribe then perhaps we might chance it, but I would not trust to my own direction. It would be folly, especially once the sun rose. Even in the early morning, the heat collected by the Sihal’s black rocks can be deadly if caught in it while above ground."

"And so we must stay to the tried and true trail," Imrahil sighed, once again turning to gaze at Lake Miyarr. "I thank you for your news, Mohart. Have you any more to say?"

"Nay, honored one. The men could tell me no more."

"Then I bid you a good day and wish upon you pleasant dreams. I suspect the men have finished setting up the camp by now."

The words were clearly a dismissal, but Mohart hesitated a moment, his dark eyes studying Imrahil’s silent form. "And what of you, honored one? Shall I wish pleasant dreams for you, or shall you be having dreams this day?"

"Concern yourself not with me, Mohart," Imrahil said quietly. "I shall see to my own health."

"As you wish, but if I may counsel you on the ways of the desert, sleep is man’s greatest weapon against the heat."

"Well do I know that. Good day."

Hearing the finality in Imrahil’s voice, Mohart sighed and inclined his head in lieu of a bow. There was no response to his formality and so the tribesman left. Imrahil might not have been inclined to sleep this day, but Mohart was not about to let ill tidings keep him from his rest. They were two days away from Haradhur, and brooding about matters was not going to change them. There was still time to create plans, particularly if they learned more about what they faced at Lake Nurnein and received proper rest.

As Imrahil had predicted, the men were indeed finished with camp, and some had already entered the tents while others milled about, speaking quietly and eating rations. Mohart went directly to his own tent, having no desire for company at the moment, but he paused ere he entered and glanced back at Imrahil, who was still watching Lake Miyarr. _A strange man_ , he thought to himself as the stars above began to dim. The eastern horizon was beginning to glow and the sun would make her appearance soon. _A very strange man_ , he repeated to himself when Imrahil made no movement to return to camp. _I pray he finds some peace this day, for if this continues, he will bring his own destruction to Haradhur._

* * * *

Imhran and Eos were waiting with bared blades when Aragorn rode back from the desert at the head of the Gondorrim early in the morning. The sun was beginning to clear the horizon and already the heat was starting to rise. But a cloud of darkness had settled upon Aragorn’s heart, and he did not feel the heat as he might have. Swinging down from Arnor, Aragorn allowed Imhran to take his mount’s reins as his own eyes swept the camp.

"Report," he ordered quietly.

"We found all the guards assigned to the camp last night, sire. None were alive. We have set aside a tent for them where they may lie until they can be taken back to Gondor. We felt the heat and dry air would keep them well," Imhran concluded with a sigh.

"I thank you for your troubles," Aragorn murmured. He was silent for a moment and then shook himself slightly. "Did aught else happen?"

"Nay, my liege," Imhran answered. "All was silent."

Aragorn nodded. He had expected as much. Those who had taken Legolas and Gimli would not have lingered once their deed was accomplished. There had certainly been no trace of them in the desert. He and Eomer had ridden out and found their company of men as the last of the raiders were being driven away. Sensing that the danger was fading and hoping to find some clue that might lead them to Legolas and Gimli, the Rohirrim and Gondorrim had parted company, with Aragorn going west and Eomer going east. Aragorn hoped that the king of Rohan had discovered something in his half of the desert, for Aragorn had found only chaotic camps and a few dead raiders who yielded nothing in the way of clues. None of the Haradrim with whom he spoke could identify the bodies, and there were no markings to indicate their tribe.

"Imhran, I shall be going to my tent. See to Arnor and inform King Eomer of my whereabouts when he arrives. Also, I will be assigning double watches this day. Inform and prepare the men for that."

"It shall be so, my liege," Imhran promised with a slight bow.

"Good. I will find you after a bit and discuss further the watch schedule. Dismissed."

Imhran bowed again and then began leading Arnor to the tent where the horses were kept, calling to the other men to follow him. Alone for the moment, Aragorn took advantage of the opportunity and quickly entered the privacy of his tent. He immediately noticed that the bloodstained carpets had been taken away and replaced with new ones. Gimli’s axe and Legolas’s knife had been cleaned, and both lay neatly next to a pile of baggage in one corner of the tent. Aragorn appreciated the gesture and mentally thanked Imhran and Eos for their troubles, but the shadow of what had happened still lay heavy over the tent. Small touches such as this could not erase it.

__

But why has this happened? Aragorn asked himself, dropping down upon his sleeping pallet and rubbing at his temples. His head ached as he tried to fathom the reason for this sudden attack, but the politics made no sense. Rarely had Aragorn ever felt so lost or so confused. Trying to decipher the madness that seemed to have fallen upon Haradhur, Aragorn rested his head in his hands and went over the recent events, hoping that his memory might bring something to light.

The Destroyer had branded Legolas and Gimli as abominations. The Gartabo tribe had then attempted to seize them. Somehow, the Lotessa tribe had received word of this and warned them before Gartabo could achieve its goal. Legolas and Gimli had returned to the tent where they had apparently been captured by the Khurintu tribe. Meanwhile, Dashnir had confronted Aulit at the Gathering and then gone on for several hours about the dangers of associating with Gondor and Rohan, breaking off when news came of an attack in the desert by raiders who did not seem to belong to any tribe, though Arhelm and Eos both insisted they rode their horses like those in the Portu tribe. After that, Khurintu had announced its intentions to withdraw, the Gathering had broken up, and the raiders had also retreated, having been the cause of much chaos but little destruction.

"None of it makes sense," Aragorn whispered aloud, deciding to try voicing his thoughts aloud. Elrond had occasionally done that when things troubled him. "Dashnir’s actions at the Gathering I can understand," the king of Gondor murmured. "He was waiting for dramatic emphasis, which means that he knew of the attack beforehand. This is plausible since we believe Portu was behind the attack and have noted that Khurintu seems to hold sway over Portu. Why that is, I cannot fathom, but it worked at Lake Supt." Aragorn sighed and rubbed his brow. "But though I understand Dashnir’s long speech, I do not understand why Legolas and Gimli were taken or why the Khurintu tribe is withdrawing. This all connects to the Destroyer, I can sense that much. But how?!" Aragorn slammed his fist onto his pallet, knowing he was missing some vital detail that lay before him but unable to grasp it.

Movement and noises outside the tent caught Aragorn’s attention, and he straightened slightly upon hearing Eomer’s voice. Orders were being issued and the general tone seemed to be calm, but Aragorn detected an underlying air of despondency and anger. The king of Gondor grimaced and shook his head. It seemed Eomer had also found nothing in the desert.

Then the voices died away and silence fell upon the camp for several long minutes, during which time Aragorn assumed that Eomer was seeing to Shade, for no king of the Mark would ever give his horse into the charge of another. Knowing he had yet a bit of time to himself, Aragorn turned again to the problem of deciphering what was happening in Haradhur. He doubted he would be able to learn anything else without more information, but it never hurt to try. Besides, at the moment, Aragorn had naught else to do.

__

Why the elf and dwarf, and why the decision to withdraw? Aragorn demanded silently. His mind began to twist and fold the problem, attempting to see it from several different angles in the hopes that he could uncover that one missing detail that eluded him, but it was to no avail. After another fifteen minutes had passed, the king of Gondor was no closer to answers than he had been when he first returned to camp.

The folds of material that made up the main entrance to the large tent suddenly parted and a harried-looking Eomer entered, brushing sand from his tunic as he did so. Deciding to let the problem alone for the moment and return to it later, Aragorn sat back and looked up at Eomer expectantly.

"Nothing," the horse lord said without preamble. "Legolas and Gimli are not in the encampment or the city. We searched everywhere. We found no trails leading away from Haradhur save for the trails of the raiders. None in the desert confessed to having seen either Legolas or Gimli. We even paused at the Khurintu camp and found it to be in just as much disarray as other camps in the area, though I believe that such a thing could have been a ruse."

"Did you learn anything of the raiders?" Aragorn asked.

Eomer shook his head and muttered something rather foul in the tongue of the Mark. "We found none that could identify the raiders as coming from any tribe. But I do not believe this to be necessary anymore, for having seen the last of them riding off myself, I must concur with my guards. They were from the Portu tribe. I have never seen any other people who ride so high upon the horse’s shoulders."

"Then I shall take you at your word, for we are in desperate need of information," Aragorn sighed. "We have little enough as is."

"What of you?" Eomer asked. "Did you find anything?"

"Nay, nothing save for a few slain raiders. And like you, I found none who could say from what tribe these attackers had come," Aragorn answered.

"Then we must work with what information we have," Eomer sighed. "And as you have already observed, that is little enough." The king of Rohan pulled Guthwinë from its scabbard and ran his hand down its sharp blade as he took a seat on his own pallet. "Why the raid, Aragorn? Why did Portu attack again? And why did Khurintu withdraw from the Gathering?"

"I have no answer for your last question," Aragorn said. "Not yet. As for the attack, there are two purposes that I can see. I doubt not that there are more, yet at least we have something of a place to start. For one, I suspect the raid was something of a warning. The Destroyer’s prophecies are beginning to come to pass. For another, it was a discreet way to slip away from Haradhur with Legolas and Gimli. In that confusion, no tribe would have noticed a group of warriors carrying two unconscious forms. With all that went on, there were probably many unconscious forms in the desert last night. And our men would certainly have noticed nothing, being too occupied themselves in keeping out of the way."

"Perhaps a delegation should be sent to the Khurintu tribe," Eomer said grimly. "I stopped briefly with my men, but they were in no condition to tell me anything. I suspect that will have changed by now."

"And what shall a delegation accomplish?" Aragorn asked. "What would be our purpose?"

"We could ask them to more clearly define their reasons for leaving the Gathering," Eomer said. "Or better yet, we could confront them with our slain guards and demand an accounting of their actions last night."

"We would go to them with no evidence and challenge their honor," Aragorn answered with a shake of his head. "Dashnir would be well within his rights if he were to force us from their camp at such an accusation. And as for stating their purpose in leaving Haradhur, they gave it to us as the Gathering broke apart last night."

"But that is certainly not their true purpose."

"No, and I doubt that Dashnir will tell us the true purpose if we were to ask."

"I said not so, but mayhap he will let slide some hint or suggestion if we were to pressure him," Eomer reasoned.

"I doubt that very much," Aragorn said heavily. "We journeyed here with Dashnir, and not once did I see his composure falter. He will have drafted an answer to every inquiry. Even should we turn instead to the men serving beneath him, I doubt that they could tell us much either. They probably know no more than we do."

Eomer sighed and sheathed his sword. "Khurintu stated that they were leaving Haradhur and the Gathering because they wished not to be caught in the path of the Destroyer. They took with them Legolas and Gimli. Does this not defeat their purpose?"

"What do you mean?"

"Clearly something is planned. Perhaps another attack, or mayhap something else, I know not. But the Khurintu tribe would not have left the Gathering claiming they did not wish to be part of the Destroyer’s wrath if some form of that wrath were not planned. Yet they have taken with them the agents of the wrath. Legolas and Gimli are not here to be blamed, but they are supposed to be the heralds of doom. Does this not work against their plans?"

Aragorn frowned, wondering why this had not occurred to him before now. He had looked at every other aspect, but he had failed to actually take Khurintu at its word. _I am looking for too many hidden motives that go untouched by speech or action. Eomer, on the other hand, is sifting their words and finding truth._ Running a hand through disheveled hair, Aragorn decided to follow in Eomer’s footsteps and look at other words that had been spoken. "No," he said quietly at length. "No, it does not."

"I do not follow your reasoning," Eomer said.

"I am not certain that I follow it myself," Aragorn confessed. "But think back with me. What were the Destroyer’s exact words to Aulit?"

"He was told to ‘cast them out,’ referring to the abominations," Eomer answered. "Or, as the interpretation now runs, Legolas and Gimli."

"But they have not been cast out," Aragorn said. "For all Aulit knows, they could be lingering upon the edges of Haradhur. He has failed in his obligations to the tribes, and they know it. If he had actually succeeded in casting out Legolas and Gimli, he would have had it announced so that all would see that he was maintaining safety at the Gathering."

"So whatever happens, it shall be blamed upon Legolas and Gimli," Eomer said. "But…why should Khurintu take them alive? If it is discovered that they are in Khurintu custody—"

"But it won’t be discovered," Aragorn said as things began to fall together. "They made certain of that with the raid. And when larger things—things more deadly than the raid—begin to happen, then Legolas and Gimli shall be blamed. And this explains yet another thing I have pondered. Khurintu’s sudden move for power must come with backing, for otherwise they would not have acted and severed all ties with the other tribes as they have done. They are too cautious for that. They have something or they know of something. But what?" Aragorn groaned and his hands became fists. He was so close now, yet he was still missing vital details.

"Then perhaps Legolas and Gimli are not alive," Eomer said quietly. "Perhaps they were killed in the attack and then removed so that Aulit and the Gartabo tribe would think them to be the cause of whatever is to come. They would certainly be easier to transport if dead."

"No," Aragorn said flatly. "I will not believe that. Something tells me otherwise. They are alive and there is a use for them yet. But I cannot see it, and I cannot see how this shall all resolve itself. Nor can I see what Khurintu might use now as an agent of destruction. But it shall have to be something significant if they wish to cow all of Harad and bring them under their heel."

"How shall we prevent this if we know not what it is?" Eomer asked, his voice soft. "Perhaps we should also withdraw from Haradhur and encourage others to do likewise."

Aragorn frowned and glanced at the king of Rohan. "You would retreat?"

"I would regroup until I better know my enemy. And I would also give us more time and more freedom to find Legolas and Gimli."

"No," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "Your idea is wise and were we anywhere else I would follow your counsel, but in Harad, I think it might be taken as a sign of weakness. We cannot afford to appear weak. Not now. That is one thing Khurintu did not do. They did not turn the other tribes against us."

"And here is yet another puzzle," Eomer exclaimed. "Why should this be? Why should they spare us this?"

"Because they do not want the other tribes to drive us out," Aragorn murmured, hoping he was on the right track but wishing he could be more certain of himself. "Whatever happens, they want us here for it."

"Should this not be cause for us to move?"

"As I said before, it would be seen by others as a sign of weakness. Khurintu would have won."

Eomer sighed and shook his head. "Then we sit here and calmly await the stroke of doom?"

"As we waited upon Mordor," Aragorn confirmed. "Until we know more, we can do nothing else."

"And in the meantime?" Eomer questioned.

"We wait and we rest. I am going now to assign double watches after which I shall be going to sleep. I suspect all others will be doing the same, for the night was a long one and rest will be required on all fronts. Khurintu is not leaving until this evening. Thus we have until then at least before anything happens. I intend to use that time for sleep."

"If you so counsel," Eomer said heavily with reluctance in his voice. "I will follow your lead, Aragorn, but I think we should force Khurintu’s hand. Rohan waited under Saruman, and it nearly cost us our kingdom."

"But you knew not from whence the evil came," Aragorn said. "You did not fully understand just how involved Saruman had become in the day-to-day affairs of your government. But we know now who the enemy is. We know that something is coming. In this, we have an advantage."

"A very small one," Eomer muttered. "Pleasant dreams, then, Aragorn, if there be any pleasant dreams left for you. And may your gift for foresight return with clarity, for I would not wait upon the stroke of a sword only to find that the sword has already fallen."

 

*******

****

Author’s Notes

Regarding the lack of camels in this story…Tolkien said nothing about camels but he did say quite a bit about oliphaunts and horses, so I’ve gone with them as resident pack animals (though we never do get to see an oliphaunt in this story). You will also notice that I’ve positioned the lakes about a day’s ride apart, so it’s not too stressful on the horses. Hopefully that’s made it a little more plausible. And then there’s personal choice, too. I know that I would choose a camel over a horse if circumstances permitted. I’ve worked with both, and camels can be REALLY ornery. Beyond that, a Harad full of horses fits better with the role of the Rohirrim. If you’d like, though, you’re more than welcome to think that the southernmost tribes utilized camels.

 

** **

Character List   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
**Aragorn—King of Gondor **  
**Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
**Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
**Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
**Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
**Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
**Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
**Eomer—King of Rohan **  
**Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
**Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
**Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
**Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
**Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
**Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
**Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC) **  
**Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
**Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
**Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

** **

  
Tribe List   
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
**Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe **  
**Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe **  
**Portu—Widespread raiding tribe **  
**Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe 


	26. Sun and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Waves of heat scorched their way across the forsaken land, robbing the burning sand of any semblance of moisture or relief. Temperatures soared as the sun reached its zenith, and the life that struggled in this desolate wasteland came to a grudging halt. Cowering in meager shelters, man and beast waited out the day with the knowledge that nighttime would bring a respite from the sun’s scornful gaze. Most of Harad’s inhabitants slept, finding refuge from the heat in dreams. But there were also those who did not sleep, much though they longed to, and of those, there were even a few who did so by choice rather than by force.

Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, was one of these. For the past few hours, sequestered in his tent, Asbad had been carefully planning the final moves that would see him successfully on the way to complete control of Harad and eventually the northern countries as well. But that planning was now drawing to a close, and it was nearing the time when he should seek rest and sleep. The day was already quite warm, and ere long, it would be too hot for him to function properly.

He smiled slightly as his thoughts took him beyond his tent toward the elf and the dwarf in their own small tent, which lay with its broad sides facing the sunlight. One of the easiest ways to cow and subdue prisoners was to subject them to the heat of the day. Asbad would never be so foolish as to leave anyone out in the desert unprotected if he desired them alive for later purposes, but there were things that could be done to make a captive’s stay highly uncomfortable. Arranging a tent so that it collected the day’s heat was one way. Those caught within would still be protected from the murderous effects of direct sunlight, but they would be greatly weakened and discomfited. Resistance usually dropped dramatically after such lessons, and captives were much easier to control. Of course, there were some prisoners who did not survive this treatment and died, but Asbad was fairly confident that his elf and his dwarf would endure.

Still, it was best to err on the part of safety in such situations where safety was permitted. Glancing at the sides of the tent and noting the position of the sun, Asbad decided that water should probably be sent to the two prisoners. Dehydration was desired since it made captives disoriented and weary, but dehydration to the point of death was not the objective this day. Khurintu could utilize the corpses if the elf and the dwarf died, but the overall plan would be better served if they remained alive for now. With this in mind, Asbad motioned to the guard who stood at one of the entrances to the tent, picked up a skin of water, and handed it to the man.

"Takes this to the captives and see that they drink it. If they are awake, they may refuse. Force them. If they are yet unconscious, wake them so that they do not choke and then give them the water. Are my orders to you clear?"

To his credit, the large guard did not hesitate in barking an affirmative, but his eyes clearly showed his distaste for the assignment. This duty was the work of servants and water boys, not renowned soldiers. Beyond that, the desert was currently an oven, and the tent holding the prisoners was in no way an effective shelter. But the loyalty of Khurintu’s tribesmen was legendary, and despite his feelings of reluctance, the guard took the water skin, turned smartly on his heel, and left the tent.

With this last problem out of the way and the remainder of the plan worked out in sufficient detail, Asbad stretched and moved to his pallet. He had no intention of remaining awake any longer. The day was growing hotter, and after another hour or so, his own tent would offer little in the way of protection. And so the leader of the Khurintu tribe lowered himself to his bed and shifted until he found a comfortable position. He fell asleep almost immediately, welcoming with open arms the dreams that came to greet him as he was carried into a new age in which his power was uncontested.

* * * *

Within a small white tent, arms and legs still firmly bound, Legolas tried to think of a time when he’d felt more miserable or more wretched. It was a rather grim testament to his plight when, after searching several centuries of existence, he decided that he had not been in a worse situation. His head still throbbed, he’d lost all sensation in his hands and feet, and his throat felt as though it had been dragged over the volcanic Sihal and then laid out to dry for a few days. The heat in the air around him was stifling, and the rising temperature of the sand was sapping his strength. And beyond that, there was the dwarf…

Legolas shook sweat out of his eyes and turned to examine Gimli as he had already done many times that day. The dwarf was still far too pale, and his breathing had become increasingly labored as the temperatures rose. But other than speaking to him and offering unheard words of encouragement, the elf knew of no way to aid his best friend. And so he was forced to watch in helpless frustration as Gimli went from bad to worse, all the while wishing vainly for a change in fortune that might somehow see them through this trial.

__

If only he would say something, the elf thought desperately, watching his friend closely as only an elf can. He had a vague hope that Gimli—always slightly uncomfortable under the prince’s intense scrutiny—would move away or tell him that if he were to chisel a sculpture it would last longer. But the dwarf remained deathly still, and the elf remained, for all intents and purposes, alone in his misery.

He was not alone for much longer. Noise outside the tent caught Legolas’s dulled hearing, and he turned his head toward the flap curiously. What madness would drive anyone into the sun at this hour of the day? He received his answer when the door of his shelter was thrust open and a large, burly man entered. Dark eyes flashed angrily beneath a sheen of sweat, and the man surveyed the tent’s occupants with a curious mixture of fear and disdain. Seeing that Legolas was awake, the man advanced, flipped the elf onto his back before Legolas could even think about resisting, and shoved something into his mouth. Despite the protests of his back and his bound arms, Legolas was hurriedly running through plans of attack when something trickled across his lips. Frozen in shock, he almost allowed the precious liquid to run down his chin before he gulped greedily. Soon more water flowed from the flask, which the man now tipped upward. Pride thrown to the wind, Legolas closed his eyes and sent up multiple prayers of thanks for the lukewarm drink that was a balm to his mouth and throat. But far too soon for the prince, the flask was taken away and he was shoved back onto his stomach.

Despite the fact that he was wheeling in sweet ecstasy, the elf tried to keep an eye on the man. The guard was now bending over Gimli and seemed to be trying to rouse the dwarf. Legolas’s blood boiled when he heard two hard slaps, but an accompanying groan put a stop to his ensuing protests. The flask containing the life-giving water was placed against Gimli’s lips, and Legolas’s breath caught as he watched the dwarf open his mouth and reflexively swallow the water that started to flow. Then the flask was taken away. The man rose, shoved Gimli back to his stomach, and left the tent with a low grumble in Haradric.

Hardly daring to hope, Legolas immediately forgot all about trying to track the man’s footsteps outside the tent and instead kept his eyes glued to Gimli. The dwarf was moaning slightly and seemed to be on the verge of waking. Fearful that he would destroy the moment but anxious to hurry the process, Legolas hesitated and then called the dwarf’s name.

"Gimli?"

Another moan was his answer, and then blurred eyes fluttered open so slowly that Legolas felt he might go mad with impatience, a feeling as foreign to the elf as snow was to Orodruin. The prince grimaced when he noticed the fixed, dilated pupils, a clear indication of a head injury. Of course, considering the blow that felled him, Legolas would have been amazed had there not been some injury, but it was still painful to see the evidence of that hurt. At least the dwarf was opening his eyes and responding to his name. Those were good signs, and Legolas was hoping for more.

"Gimli, can you say speak?"

A seemingly infinite pause was finally followed by a very tentative voice. "Legolas?"

The dwarf was blinking his eyes as though trying to clear them, and Legolas surmised that his vision was blurred. He doubted that Gimli could see little more than vague lights and shadows. But he could hear and he could respond. These two accomplishments were priceless, and Legolas hurried to encourage his friend to even greater achievements.

"Yes, Gimli, I am here. How are you feeling?" Even as he said it, the elf realized how ridiculous the question was. He could easily see and guess for himself how Gimli was feeling, yet what else could he ask? What else would the dwarf be capable of answering? Was he even capable of answering this?

"Stupid question," Gimli mumbled.

Legolas smiled slightly and shook his head, which—thanks in part to the water—had stopped throbbing and currently only sported a dull ache. "I should have expected such a response from a dwarf," he answered even as relief filled his heart. If Gimli could jest, then things could not possibly be as bad as they seemed to be.

The elf watched with a mixture of hope and fear as Gimli sighed and closed his eyes, wincing unconsciously at the pain that Legolas knew must have been crippling. "What happened?" the dwarf whispered.

It was a simple enough question, but Legolas did not have a simple answer. Or any answer, for that matter. He was still trying to piece together the puzzle himself, and he was also lost as to the motives behind abducting the two of them. Power, to be certain, but the elf sensed something larger was at stake. Something larger than any of them suspected. But as for what that something was, the elf could not say. He had pondered on it for much of the morning, but the increasing temperatures had slowed his thought processes and he had been unable to reach an answer or even a vague guess. "What do you remember?" Legolas finally asked, turning the question back on his friend since he could not seem to put his own thoughts in order. Besides, this would help him uncover the extent of the dwarf’s head injury.

"Night…tents…" Gimli trailed off and his brow furrowed.

"Do you remember leaving the company of Aragorn and Eomer?" Legolas asked when the dwarf’s pause began to stretch into minutes.

"Aragorn?" Gimli’s voice was becoming faint, and the elf sensed he was about to lose consciousness again. "Is Eomer…where are they?"

"Not here, Valar willing," Legolas said. "What do you recall of them?"

"I…I do not know," Gimli murmured. "I cannot remember…"

Watching the dwarf closely, Legolas saw his body relax and his labored breathing deepen slightly. "Gimli? Gimli?!"

There was no response and the elf sighed heavily. He did not know what to make of the dwarf’s broken speech and he could not tell how much damage had been done by the Haradrim’s blow. Gimli’s ramblings might be the direct result of an injury to his brain or merely the side effects of semi-consciousness in the midst of paralyzing heat. Legolas was sorely tempted to wake the dwarf again and see if he could push him to greater coherency, but he eventually decided that sleep would probably be best for him. At least that way, he could remain unaware of the blistering temperatures.

"Rest well, Gimli," the elf said quietly. "Perhaps when you wake again, I will have the answers for which you seek and you will have the answers for which I seek. But until then, rest well." And with that, the elven prince returned to his own confusing thoughts, once again alone.

__

* * * *

Weaving through the alleys and buildings that protected Haradhur’s wells, Arabano and a small group of guards dared the deadly heat of the early afternoon and hastened toward the area where Gondor and Rohan camped. It had been a hazardous journey through the burning desert to reach even the walls of Haradhur, but strange things were happening and Budari had felt the risk was necessary. Arabano concurred with his leader, but he almost wished that someone else had been chosen to make the journey. Not that anyone else really could have gone. He and Budari knew the most about the situation, and no one else could be trusted to handle matters as convoluted as these had become.

"Arabano!"

Arabano froze, and at his side, the Lotessa guards all reached for their daggers. A wave from Arabano relaxed them slightly, but the feeling of alarm and warning continued. As one, the group turned to watch as Fastahn of the Soltari tribe, accompanied by two guards, approached.

"Honored one, I would speak with you upon a matter of some importance," Fastahn said, his voice quiet but firm.

Studying Fastahn closely, Arabano eventually nodded and motioned his men back. "Speak quickly, then, for I have much to do this day."

"As do we all," Fastahn sighed. "But I would know what has become of the elf and the dwarf. Our spies reported that they never left Haradhur, but it seems they are no longer within the camp of Gondor and Rohan."

"Have the vaunted spies of Soltari faltered at last?" Arabano asked with mock dismay, neatly avoiding the question at the same time that he began wondering about Fastahn’s purpose. "Surely they did not fail to keep track of the abominations within Haradhur."

Fastahn’s eyes narrowed marginally, but he did not rise to the bait. "Our spies observed members of the Khurintu tribe advancing on the camp of Gondor and Rohan. This was shortly after the elf and dwarf had entered. There were sounds of a struggle, but then all fell silent again. After that, word came of the attack in the desert and our spies were recalled to aid in driving off the raiders. So I ask again, honored one, what news of the elf and the dwarf? What has become of them?"

"Why does this matter interest you?"

"They are not within Haradhur, are they? Khurintu has taken them."

Arabano was rapidly losing what little patience he had left. "Why does this matter interest you?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

"It does not interest me specifically, but the welfare of the Soltari tribe is in a precarious position," the man answered. "For this reason, honored one, I seek information. And your refusal to answer is answer enough. I thank you for your help."

Arabano felt the iron control that held his temper in check begin to slip. If pressed much further, he would be unable to restrain himself. "Listen well, Fastahn, and then consider well your answer. Why does this matter interest the Soltari tribe? How does the location of the elf and the dwarf affect you and those beneath you?"

Seeming to sense the imminent explosion in Arabano, Fastahn backed away slightly. "Asbad, using the guise of the Destroyer, has labeled the elf and the dwarf as abominations," he said after a moment of silence. "The interpretation has come to mean that they shall bring doom upon Harad unless the Gartabo tribe is able to contain them and hold them without Haradhur. But this has not happened, and that is also the work of the Khurintu tribe. They have opened the way for destruction, they have absolved themselves of blame while placing responsibility upon the tribe heading the Gathering, and they are leaving so that they are not caught in the path of doom. And you wonder that the Soltari tribe is concerned?"

"The power of the Khurintu tribe is less than what rumor makes it," Arabano said firmly.

"But rumor has a way of becoming reality if left uncontested," Fastahn countered. "Can you stop the rumors, honored one? Can you stop the fears? For out of fear is born submission, and already there are tribes who speak of following in the footsteps of Khurintu. Some are thinking of departing after tonight’s meetings."

"Then let them depart," Arabano spat. "They are of no importance to us."

"You are not strong enough to stand alone," Fastahn warned.

"Gondor and Rohan stand with us."

"Most of Harad will stand with Khurintu."

Arabano let out a frustrated sigh and leveled Fastahn with a dark glare. "What is your purpose? You ask concerning the whereabouts of elf and dwarf, and then you speak of politics and Khurintu."

"My purposes are the purposes of the Soltari tribe. As for its purposes, we seek only to maintain the balance of power within the desert. Khurintu is looking to upset that balance," Fastahn answered. "One more question, though, ere I depart. Know you the identities of the raiders who attacked last night?"

"What binds me to tell you anything?" Arabano demanded.

"Because I warned you of the plan to take Legolas and Gimli."

"The warning did more harm than good."

"I also explained to you the rumors and interpretations of the Destroyer that were spreading yesterday."

Arabano sighed and shook his head. "My tribe does not know the identity of the raiders," he eventually answered. "However, King Eomer and the Rohirrim believe that they were of the Portu tribe."

"Were they certain?"

"When I spoke with them, they were," Arabano said. "Does this information mean something to you?"

"Perhaps," Fastahn murmured. "I thank you for your time, honored one. If you will excuse me, there are now other matters I must attend to on behalf of my tribe." And without another word, the advisor from Soltari walked away, leaving Arabano to puzzle over their conversation.

"Honored one?" one of the guards asked hesitantly.

"Come," Arabano said quietly, still wondering about Fastahn’s intentions. Now that he thought about it, without Soltari’s warning, Legolas and Gimli would never have fallen into Khurintu’s hands. But had Khesva and Fastahn known that? Were they truly seeking to maintain a balance, or had they aligned themselves with Khurintu? Shaking his head, he decided this would have to wait until he could consult Budari about it. "Come," he repeated, turning and resuming his walk toward the camp of Gondor and Rohan. "There is much to be done this day."

* * * *

If there was one thing Dashnir hated, it was cleaning up after other people’s messes, even if those messes were necessary. This particular mess had even been expected, but it still gnawed at Dashnir’s temper.

He had cleared out one of the larger tents in the Khurintu encampment for use as a place of healing as well as a morgue. Not wishing to be burdened with bodies, Asbad had left behind all that had been wounded or killed during the capture of the elf and the dwarf. Consequently, they were Dashnir’s responsibility, and it was his duty to see that no one else noticed that Khurintu seemed to have suffered an inordinate number of casualties during the night’s attack. Eleven men had been killed by elven blade or dwarven axe, and seventeen had been wounded, some grievously so.

Dashnir sighed and rubbed his head. The dead tribesmen would have to be given proper rites, and that could certainly not be done here. There were far too many of them, and the required ceremonies were far too conspicuous. Thus, they would have to be disguised as baggage and carried out on the horses. With a grimace, Dashnir wondered if it would have been easier had Asbad taken the bodies along when he left with the elf and dwarf. But then, Asbad had been unable to take horses because of the havoc caused by the Portu tribe and the numbers kept by the Soltari tribe. And without horses, eleven dead men would have been a terrible burden.

The number of wounded was also going to be a problem. Dashnir had known that both elf and dwarf were capable fighters, but their abilities had surpassed his expectations. And now he was forced to care for seventeen wounded men. Nine of these men could no longer walk, and of those nine, three would never be able to do so again. There were but two hours left until sunset, and Dashnir was still trying to devise a way of getting these wounded men out of camp without calling too much attention to them. Fortunately, almost all other preparations for departure were completed, and Dashnir could devote his attention solely to this.

"Honored one?"

__

That is, I can devote my attention solely to this problem if I meet with no other interruptions, he sighed, raising his head and glaring darkly at the guard who had poked his head into the tent. "Report."

"The honored Radarad of Portu is demanding a right to speak with you. I would have turned him away, but his status as a tribal leader—"

"Yes, I know," Dashnir sighed, releasing the poor guard from his sharp gaze. "Send him in."

The man nodded smartly and disappeared. Voices could be heard outside the tent, and then the flaps parted to reveal a rather upset tribal leader. Radarad was not even attempting to mask his anger, and Dashnir wondered what was bothering the man. "Where is Asbad?" Radarad demanded.

A slight tremor of uncertainty crawled through Dashnir’s stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "He is not here, honored one, as I explained on the opening night of the Gathering," Dashnir answered, wondering if Lotessa was no longer alone in its knowledge of the Destroyer’s true identity.

"Then where is he?" Radarad demanded. "Surely he would have arrived before now. And I do not think he would bestow upon you the power to withdraw your entire tribe from the Gathering."

Relief swept Dashnir. It seemed Radarad did not know about Asbad’s role as the Destroyer but rather was working from assumptions based upon standard protocol and procedure. "The honored Asbad and I have conversed through hawks," Dashnir explained, gesturing toward some of the perches near the back of the tent where a few hawks were sleeping through the day’s heat. "In leaving Haradhur, we are acting upon his orders. And since we are leaving, he saw no reason to make the journey here but rather to await our coming and join us at a rendezvous point."

Radarad looked less than pleased with this news, and his countenance darkened significantly. But after a short pause, he seemed to come to a decision of sorts and began speaking again. "Then I shall address you, Dashnir, as the resident authority, and I pray that you have the wisdom to handle this responsibility. Call off the Warra soldiers who guard the hidden lakes. My people are dying."

__

Ah. So this is what so vexes you, dear Radarad. Wondering why he hadn’t seen this before now, Dashnir made his face carefully neutral and studied the Portu leader. At length, he shook his head slowly. "With all due respect, honored one, I fear that we cannot do that. I know not if I have the authority to order those guards, nor do I know if such a policy would be a wise one."

Radarad’s eyes narrowed. "And in what way is this an unwise policy?"

"If we allow your people access to the water, what assurances have we that you will not go crawling to Gartabo and confess all?"

"It would be foolish for us to confess!" the tribal leader exclaimed. "It was my tribe who attacked the Gathering. Such an offense would alienate us from all in Harad. We will not go before them. We cannot go before them. You may rest easy in this knowledge."

"My apologies, honored one, but we simply cannot take chances in this area. After all is said and done, we shall certainly allow your people access to the hidden lakes again."

"My riders have done the work you requested of them!" Radarad exclaimed. "Your plans are set in motion, and none can stop you now. I demand that you uphold your end of the arrangement. Release my people!"

"Prudence is often a kindly master, and though we do not always hearken to its counsels, we heed it as often as we can," Dashnir answered. "As I have said before, the Warra tribe shall guard the hidden lakes until our goals have been accomplished. Yours is not an entirely trustworthy tribe, honored one. I fear we cannot afford to take risks such as you would have us take."

"And is this also the policy of Warra? For they are not represented in this tent. Surely Joranen has better uses for the men that guard hidden lakes from women and children."

Dashnir froze and his eyes became dark. "For your own sake, Radarad, I urge you to never bring this matter before the honored Joranen. The Warra tribe wishes to keep their ties to us quiet and secret in the event that something may go wrong. He will refuse to see you, and he will deny all that you say, for they cannot afford to be caught in a web of deceit. Should aught happen and our plan fail, Warra wishes to remain untainted. And in exchange for their help, Khurintu has allowed this. Do not go to them, or the Portu tribe shall suddenly find itself bereft of its leader."

Radarad’s look became hard, and Dashnir prayed that his improvised speech had worked. The entire plan would become far more complex if Joranen learned that a rebellious faction in his own tribe was working for Khurintu under the assumption that they were still operating beneath the deceased Garat. Should Radarad inform Warra of this, it would throw enough doubt onto the Khurintu tribe that the Lotessa tribe might be able to convince others that Asbad had been the Destroyer.

Eventually, Dashnir’s hopes were realized as Radarad muttered something highly uncomplimentary under his breath and looked away. "Remember our agreement, then," he growled. "You have promised to let my people drink."

"And we shall keep our promise," Dashnir said firmly. "You need only wait a few more days, honored one. I trust that your people shall be able to ration their remaining water accordingly?"

"Do not seek to placate me," Radarad snapped, his eyes flashing. "I will be watching, Dashnir. And if you fail in your word, or if Khurintu fails in its promise, all of Harad shall know of the dishonor." And with this, the man fixed Dashnir with a parting glare and then swept out of the tent.

__

And a moment ago, he was saying how he could never bring this before all of Harad, Dashnir sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump and thanking the _Iluh_ that Radarad was too dense to see what was actually happening. Another leader would have seen the situation for what it was in minutes, but the Portu tribe was not renowned for its intelligence. They were cunning, devious, and sly upon the field of battle, but in the political arena, they were as children playing with weapons far too sophisticated for their abilities.

Still, something would have to be done about the Portu tribe. They did not know enough to ruin the plan, but they knew too much for their own good. Perhaps the same surprise that was planned for Lotessa and key points along Haradhur’s wall should be extended to Portu. It could be done easily enough before the time came to depart. Two of Khurintu’s guards could deliver a message of apology, and while there, they could—

"Honored one, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe is here to speak with you."

Startled out of his thought process, Dashnir looked up and frowned. First Radarad, now Fastahn. This day was becoming unpredictable, and unpredictable things always made Dashnir extremely nervous. More than that, the Soltari tribe had no pressing business with Khurintu. Radarad’s interruption was understandable, but what could Fastahn possibly want? It made no sense, and given the fact that Dashnir was about to depart into the desert where he would rendezvous with the rest of Khurintu’s warriors, these unexpected interruptions were very disturbing.

"Tell him that I am unable to meet with him," Dashnir said at length. He would set agents upon Fastahn and discover his intentions later. At the moment, he had more important items of business.

"Honored one, he insists upon speaking with you," the man said, his eyes nervous. "He said that if you refuse him an audience, I am to tell you that he knows the color of the robes that the honored Asbad wore on the first night of the Gathering."

Dashnir’s jaw dropped. Things did not usually catch Dashnir by surprise, for he was a man of great planning. He studied his moves carefully, he studied his opponents carefully, and when the time came to act, he had a very good idea of what would happen as well as most of the possible twists and turns that a situation could take. But this… It was impossible for Fastahn to know that Asbad had been the Destroyer. Arabano knew, and the Lotessa tribe now knew, but beyond them… Even if Lotessa had spoken with Soltari about it, Soltari would never have believed them.

"Show him in," Dashnir hissed. His mind felt as though it was now tumbling through the thorn bushes that grew in the eastern part of the desert. How could this have happened? And why hadn’t Fastahn acted on this knowledge earlier? Why hadn’t he gone before the Gathering with it? What game was Soltari playing? Dashnir’s fists clenched at his sides while his teeth ground together. The Khurintu tribe was the one that did the maneuvering. It did not work the other way around!

"Honored Dashnir, I present to you Fastahn, a member of Soltari’s advisory council."

Dashnir looked over, his face now a mask of casual curiosity. But beneath that façade he was burning with anger, rage, hatred, and above all else, fear. "You asked to speak with me?"

"I did, honored one," Fastahn answered. "Yet before we begin, I would make plain some things which, until now, have been hidden. I know where Asbad was on the first night of the Gathering. I know where he was during the second night when Aulit entered the hall alone. I know he wore red robes, and I know that he confronted an elf in the name of the _Iluh_. But this is not all, honored one. What I know, my tribe also knows. If I do not return to them this day, then the honored Khesva shall take my knowledge to all of Haradhur and your tribe shall be disgraced beyond any hope of ever regaining honor." Fastahn gave Dashnir a thin smile. "So kindly remove your hand from your dagger. You cannot kill me without inviting your own destruction. How ironic it would be if the Destroyer’s prophecies turned themselves upon you."

"What business have you here?" Dashnir demanded, dropping the veneer of politeness and twisting his face into a threatening scowl. If Fastahn was going to hide nothing, Dashnir would return the favor.

"We of the Soltari tribe know much of your plan, honored one," Fastahn said with a slow drawl. "We know that you have taken the elf and the dwarf. We know you are amassing significant forces to the northeast around Lake Hajim. We suspect that you have great plans for Harad, and we suspect you wish to hold power over other tribes. We ask only one thing of you, Dashnir—if your plans give you success, then spare the Soltari tribe. You may use us as a vassal tribe if necessary, but allow our people to live as they have always lived."

It took Dashnir a moment to realize that he was staring. It took him another moment to realize that he was only seconds away from lodging his knife in Soltari’s throat. Eventually, he mastered himself and took one slight step forward. It was not much, but it was enough to tell Fastahn that this was Dashnir’s tent and that he would control the flow of their conversation. "And what have you to offer in return?" he asked, his voice cold as the desert sand under the moonlight.

"For one, we offer discretion," Fastahn said. "Many tribes would be very interested to learn of your recent activities, particularly insofar as they relate to a certain religious figure traditionally clad in red robes. But we offer more than simply discretion, honored one. The Soltari tribe knows many secrets and tricks in convincing the desert soil to yield crops. We know methods of irrigation that would enrich your own tribe if you were to rely upon us for agriculture. But if you were to subjugate us as you plan on subjugating all else, then we would hide our secrets from you and the desert would not produce enough to sustain your warriors as you marched them upon Gondor and Rohan."

Last minute surprises were not good, especially on the eve of a plan that would either lift the Khurintu tribe to heights it had never known or bury it beyond any hope of glory. No longer able to hide his emotions, Dashnir scowled at Fastahn even as he considered what was being asked. In truth, Asbad had been planning to make Soltari a vassal tribe anyway, but Khurintu could not grant it upon request. Such a move implied weakness, and weakness could not be allowed. Perhaps the fate of the Soltari tribe should be adjusted to parallel the fate of the Portu tribe. But this would mean the loss of a valuable agricultural base that Khurintu would need as they began to build their empire. There was always Gartabo, of course, and they would be completely at Khurintu’s mercy, especially given their disgrace in losing the elf and dwarf. But would Gartabo alone suffice?

Dashnir mentally raged at the choice placed before him. He could not allow Soltari to coerce Khurintu like this, for such a weakness was unprecedented. But could he destroy the tribe? Did the risks warrant such an action? _Their lands will be open to us if we destroy them_ , Dashnir reminded himself. _Techniques can always be learned. We can sift their records and force their survivors to talk._ For a moment more, he wavered between the options presented him, and then he made the only choice that he could. Soltari would have to be destroyed. There were other agricultural bases to be found, but a perceived weakness could not be allowed.

Decision made, Dashnir fixed Fastahn with a deadly glare while Fastahn casually examined one of the hawks in the tent as a means of passing time. Sensing Dashnir’s gaze, the tribesman from Soltari straightened and turned, his nose wrinkling slightly as though from an unpleasant odor. His dark eyes took on a questioning look, but other than that, he betrayed no emotion.

"Your wish is granted," Dashnir said coldly. "If our plan is successful, your tribe will become a vassal of Khurintu." _What’s left of it, that is_ , he mentally added to himself. "And now if you will be so kind as to leave…"

"My thanks," Fastahn answered, wrinkling his nose slightly once more and then smiling. "You have been most helpful. Now that a place has been assured for Soltari, we shall step back and allow this drama to unfold. May the _Iluh_ guard your feet, honored one."

Dashnir offered no response but turned his head pointedly toward the door, hoping that Fastahn would take the hint and depart. Reading the message with ease, Fastahn smiled slightly and bowed before turning away and exiting. Left alone, Dashnir nearly collapsed, his mind spinning into a state just short of a full-fledged panic. With victory so near, they could ill-afford to have something like this happen. The fact that Soltari, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan all knew the identity of the Destroyer was a risk that could not be allowed to persist. The list of tribes slated to become examples of the Destroyer’s power would have to be expanded.

Lotessa was actually already on the list, and preparations had recently been made to ensure their destruction. The alliance that Gondor and Rohan had managed to construct with the Lotessa tribe had been unexpected but ultimately very beneficial for Khurintu. It gave Dashnir the perfect place to plant the last surprises that the Khurintu tribe had to offer before leaving Haradhur. But extending the same courtesy to the Soltari tribe…that was a fairly large risk. It seemed that Soltari had outlived its usefulness and could no longer be controlled with misinformation, but that did not mean they could be wiped from the map of Harad. They knew too much, and if even one member of the ruling and advisory councils survived, then the knowledge they held would be all over Haradhur.

But to let them live… Dashnir shook his head. It could not be allowed. Khurintu was being blackmailed, even though their plans did not have to be altered. Soltari had gone too far this time. Had they kept to themselves as was their wont, all would have been well. But they had not, and so arrangements would have to made to ensure that Soltari received the same gift that Lotessa and Portu would receive.

This _gift_ was quite possibly the crowning jewel as well as the inspiration for the entire plan and was born of a message sent from Asbad’s kinsman, the Mouth of Sauron, almost five years ago. It had traveled first by horseman and ultimately by hawk, originating from the ruins of a fortress identified in the message as Isengard. There were many incomprehensible things in that particular letter—among them some rather strange references to very peculiar trees—but one bit of information had stood out above all. The Mouth of Sauron had spoken of a weapon created in this fortress of Isengard, and Asbad had set much of Khurintu’s extensive resources to the task of learning more about this strange thing. The effort had been long but very fruitful, and the Khurintu tribe now had the ability to topple even the mightiest tribe with a single stroke. So it would be for Portu, Lotessa, and now Soltari. There were great risks in this, but there were now great risks in everything that Dashnir did. And he felt confident that Asbad would agree with him that Soltari should be a recipient of the Khurintu tribe’s greatest asset.

Mind made up, Dashnir stepped to the entrance of the tent and spoke a few quiet words with the guards outside. A short time later, other men arrived and instructions were quickly given. By the time all was finished, the sun was very close to setting, and Dashnir knew his stay at Haradhur had come to an end. He had arranged things to the best of his ability, and it was now in the hands of the _Iluh_ , or so the saying went. Dashnir smiled. Before long, Khurintu would be hailed as the messengers of the _Iluh_. And after that, all of Middle-earth would bow before them. The saying would have to be altered, for things would no longer be in the hands of the mythical _Iluh_. Things would be in the hands of Khurintu.

*******

** **

Character List   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
**Aragorn—King of Gondor **  
**Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
**Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
**Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
**Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
**Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
**Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
**Eomer—King of Rohan **  
**Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
**Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
**Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
**Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
**Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
**Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
**Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC) **  
**Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
**Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
**Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

** **

  
Tribe List   
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
**Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe **  
**Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe **  
**Portu—Widespread raiding tribe **  
**Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe 


	27. To One Side of Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are detectives in our midst, and they are getting very ingenious. Perhaps a bit too _ingenious, but its great fun to hear all the theories. And may I commend Dwimordene in particular for a very interesting theory she sent me via email. Although incorrect, it certainly got my head spinning about other possible plot ideas. Also, fliewateut must be added to the list of detectives for deducing what the Isengard gift to Khurintu is. Or at least guessing the location where it has made a previous appearance in canon. As for other detectives, Ithilien and Mari are still going strong but getting a tad too creative for their own good._ ;)

The dancing shadows upon the walls of the tent informed Eomer that the sun had set and lamps had been lit within the encampment. With a sigh, the king of Rohan ran his hand along Shade’s broad back and wondered how things had gotten so off course. Sensing his rider’s despair, the dark gray horse turned black eyes upon Eomer and gently whickered, almost questioning.

  


"My mood is no fault of yours," Eomer said quietly, stroking his stallion’s neck as he turned back to his task of grooming the horse. "Pay it no heed."

  


A soft snort answered this and Shade turned his head away from Eomer, but his ears flicked back as though waiting for the king to speak again. But silence suited Eomer’s mood well this evening, and so he stroked Shade’s sleek coat without a hint of the usual quiet song that accompanied him in this chore. But though his voice was still, his mind was very active. The last time he had been this obsessed with a political problem was the day that Wormtongue somehow convinced Theoden to dispatch a full _eored_ northward when the true threat clearly lay in the west. And on that day, much as he was doing now, Eomer had sought out his horse, for he found solace in the seemingly mundane chore of grooming. _And as Shade aids me this evening, so Firefoot aided me then. But in this is yet another parallel: Both then and today, I cannot fully escape the misgivings of my heart._

  


Arabano and a few guards had arrived in the camp of Gondor and Rohan during the mid-afternoon, drenched in sweat and filled with many questions but very few answers. He, Aragorn, and Eomer had held a long discussion, but ultimately they only confirmed that they knew next to nothing. They all agreed that the Portu tribe had been the attacking tribe during the night, they agreed that it had been done under Khurintu’s orders, and they agreed that Khurintu had been the tribe to take Legolas and Gimli. More than that was sheer speculation. They all suspected that Khurintu had yet to unveil the crux of their plan, they suspected that something traumatic would happen during this night, but they knew neither what nor when nor how. Arabano had informed them that Budari intended to have some of Lotessa’s riders trail the departing Khurintu tribe when they left Haradhur, but he did not know how long they could follow them or if it would do them any good. Of course there were spies watching the Khurintu camp throughout the day from various vantagepoints, but according to Arabano’s latest information, nothing of note had yet happened. Eventually, Arabano had left, making mention of urgent matters he needed to discuss with Budari. But before he had done so, he had left a strange warning concerning the Soltari tribe. Aragorn was almost as surprised by this latest bit of news as was Eomer. So far as he knew, save for supporting the interruption in the Gathering the previous evening, Soltari had remained a neutral party in all proceedings. And according to Aragorn, such was their custom, for their livelihood depended upon neutrality within the desert.

  


Giving Shade a final pat and setting aside the brushes he had used, Eomer sighed and moved away. He had lingered here far too long, for there were yet many things to be done. He and Aragorn were still debating whether or not to send out a few riders in pursuit of the departing Khurintu tribe or whether one of the kings could afford to miss the Gathering and lead a search for those who had abducted Legolas and Gimli. Eomer’s personal preference was to take the entire Rohirrim company and conduct a search on his own terms, a plan that involved storming the Khurintu caravan and leaving them much as they had left the Gondor guards on the previous night. Aragorn was rather reluctant to sanction this action, but Eomer has a suspicion that the king of Gondor was of half a mind to do the same thing.

  


A commanding whinny suddenly snagged his attention, and he turned to find himself looking into the large, black eyes of Faensul. The elven stallion whinnied again, causing the other horses within the tent to shift nervously. "Has no one been to see to you, my friend?" Eomer asked quietly, making use of a tone that managed to calm even the most restless of colts. Raising one hand cautiously, he ran it along Faensul’s strong face, making his movements slow and deliberate for the horse was clearly skittish.

  


In response to this, Faensul snorted and tossed his head, but he did not move away. He turned his eyes to the tent’s entrance and then looked back at Eomer, his ears lying flat upon his head momentarily.

  


"I can see that you have been groomed already, great one," Eomer said quietly, now stroking the horse’s neck. "And you do not lack for food or water. Why this fear and anxiety? Perhaps you miss Legolas?"

  


At the elf’s name, Faensul threw back his head and whinnied a third time, but this whinny turned into something akin to a keening wail, its eerie sound rising into the night air and startling the other horses. A few neighed and some pulled sharply against their stakes. It was a sound that Eomer had never before heard from a horse, but then, he had never before worked with elven horses. Uncertain of what to do, he resorted to a trick that had never failed to calm Firefoot. He began to hum.

  


Faensul seemed startled by this development and he ceased to keen, but the look he turned upon Eomer was not friendly. Stomping his back foot, he tossed his head and his ears went back. Still Eomer continued to hum, never ceasing to stroke the horse’s neck. After a few minutes of this, Faensul dropped his head and whickered quietly. It was almost as though he had given up for the time being. Eomer did not know what to make of this strange behavior, but since Faensul was no longer agitating the other horses, the king of Rohan judged it safe to leave him.

  


"Peace, my friend," he whispered, giving the horse a final pat. "I shall come to see you again shortly. And if it is within my power to do so, we shall find your rider. That I promise."

  


If Faensul understood these words, he did not show it. He now seemed utterly dejected, a far cry from the spirited stallion that had splashed and played in the Anduin before crossing on the barges. With a sigh, Eomer shook his head and turned away, quickly leaving the tent. Faensul was not the only one possessed of a pessimistic mind this night. He was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed himself, and the lack of both answers and action was telling on Eomer. He did not truly mind waiting out a situation so long as there was an objective to the wait. But stalling because one knew not what else to do…that was something else. Eomer shook his head as he pulled aside the flap to his own tent. If things did not change soon, he might well face a mutiny. The Riders of Rohan were not accustomed to sitting quietly and waiting. They did so with an ill grace.

  


"How fare the horses?"

  


"Well enough, all things considered," Eomer answered, spying Aragorn sitting in a corner and sharpening a knife. _Legolas’s knife_ , the king of Rohan realized with something akin to despair. _It seems that I am not the only one at a loss for things to do._ "Faensul does concern me, however," Eomer continued, praying that Aragorn would stop playing with the elf’s knife in the near future. "His behavior is not that of a normal horse, and I do not know how to interpret his actions."

  


"That was his cry, then?" Aragorn asked. "I wondered. Elven steeds form very strong ties to their riders. It does not surprise me that he misses Legolas’s presence."

  


"Is there anything that can be done? I know not how to handle him, and he is vexing the other horses."

  


"We must find Legolas," Aragorn answered with a slight shrug. The king of Gondor held the elf’s knife up to a lamp that flickered nearby and nodded slightly, apparently satisfied with his work. "As for how we shall do that, it remains yet to be seen."

  


"Would the break in tradition be too great if we decided to avoid the Gathering tonight and instead spend our time in the desert?" Eomer asked. "Or is tradition a moot point by now?"

  


Aragorn gave a rather humorless laugh and ran his thumb over the edge of Legolas’s blade. "Tradition is never a moot point in Harad, but customs are certainly changing during this Gathering. Of that there can be no doubt."

  


"Then we are free to go?"

  


"Somewhat, I suppose, but would it be wise to do so? Would we be playing into Khurintu’s hands by leaving Haradhur?" Aragorn rubbed his brow and sighed. "Let us run through our speculations and the situation again. What do we know so far and what do we fear?"

  


"We know that the Portu tribe is working for Khurintu," Eomer said, running through a growing mental list of facts and theories. "We know that Khurintu has used the legend of the Destroyer to turn much of Harad against us. Or at the very least, they are suspicious of our motives and our intentions. We know that the Gartabo tribe was commanded to apprehend Legolas and Gimli and to hold them outside Haradhur, but the Khurintu tribe got to them first. And now they are missing. We know that Arabano suspects treacherous dealings on the part of Soltari, and we know that the Khurintu tribe is leaving Haradhur within the hour. We also know that there are a substantial number of Khurintu tribesmen located northeast around Lake Hajim. What else do you wish me to list?"

  


"This seems a fair place to begin," Aragorn murmured. "Now what of our fears for the future? We believe that Khurintu has a weapon or plan of some kind that will reinforce fears that the Destroyer is about to live up to his name. We believe they will use this weapon tonight. We believe that Khurintu’s objective is supreme power in the desert and ultimately the capture of northern lands. They wish to obtain Mordor’s glory."

  


"And they shall start with the overthrow of key tribes such as Gartabo," Eomer sighed. "Because Gartabo has failed to capture Legolas and Gimli, they have failed to obey the Destroyer’s commands. Whatever happens, they shall be held responsible."

  


"Which is probably why Khurintu wished to capture Legolas and Gimli for themselves. They are now the agents of the _Iluh_. They shall be the ones to obey the Destroyer’s commands"

  


"But it does not explain why they wanted Legolas and Gimli alive," Eomer pointed out, rubbing his temples. "Nor does it give us any clue as to what they plan to do that will incriminate the Gartabo tribe."

  


"But it does, in its own a way," Aragorn said quietly, seeming to speak to himself. "Khurintu cannot afford to destroy the Gartabo tribe, for they will need them as an agricultural base. One cannot feed warriors upon the blood of their slain enemies unless one is an Orc, and even then, something more is required."

  


"Then they shall do something that causes a stir, is highly visible, but leaves valuable tribes intact," Eomer concluded. "Which means that whatever they do, it will undoubtedly be a localized occurrence. Perhaps they shall target key tribes or groups."

  


"And those groups will have to be kept under careful watch," Aragorn sighed. "So who becomes a target?"

  


"Ourselves," Eomer answered with a shrug. "That much is obvious."

  


"Is it?" Aragorn grimaced and shook his head. "I fear that I must disagree with you. I do not think that we are a target. Not yet. That is not how Khurintu operates. They will slide around the bush and eliminate all subordinates who stand in the way, but when confronting their primary opposition, they prefer to do it directly. Nay, we are not a target yet. We shall be in the future, but for the moment, our encampment at least is safe. I suspect that this is one of the reasons for our being inside the city rather than without its walls. We are shielded from the desert and from angry tribes. We are being protected against the time when Asbad and Dashnir will come to claim us themselves."

  


Eomer thought this logic over, but while it made sense, he was still unconvinced. "Would it not be easier to destroy us when we were unawares?"

  


"It would, but it would not further the plan. If I were placed in Asbad’s role and had his desires, I would wish to make an example of the kingdoms from the north. And I would wish to do it in such a way that none would doubt my supremacy after their defeat. Of this much I am becoming very convinced, Eomer. We are being spared for a later date. Our time will come, but it is not yet here."

  


"As you say," Eomer said, still feeling rather uneasy about this idea but lacking the necessary knowledge to debate it. "Then whom shall we watch? And whom shall we warn?"

  


"Lotessa," Aragorn said, conviction beginning to grow in his voice. "They shall be among the first. They are a rival but not a direct one, nor have they done aught during the Gathering that might merit Khurintu’s ill will. Thus, a quick end to Lotessa’s power suits Khurintu’s needs. The Portu tribe, also, may become a target. Khurintu cannot risk their telling the other tribes of their participation in last night’s raid. More than that, though, I cannot say. If Khurintu specifically singles out all their rivals, it will look suspicious. Perhaps one or two is all they require."

  


"What of the Warra tribe?" Eomer questioned. "Upon the journey here, Garat seemed to be working with Dashnir, yet I have not seen anything in the way of partnership between Joranen and Dashnir."

  


"I have also wondered about this," Aragorn murmured. "It makes no sense, for you are right. There was an alliance between Dashnir and Garat. But between Dashnir and Joranen, I have seen nothing. I wonder if we should not look into the structure of the Warra tribe. It may be that there are rebel factions within it. Perhaps Garat was operating independently."

  


"And in addition to this, we must also discover how Khurintu’s bid for power will take shape. We must discover what they shall unleash upon us tonight." Eomer sighed and rubbed his temples. "This takes time, Aragorn. All of this takes time and research as well as resources. May I point out that we are lacking in every one of these requirements?"

  


"I am well aware of our limitations."

  


"Then may I also point out that Legolas and Gimli are somewhere in Harad and that we must also devote time, research, and resources to finding them?"

  


"How would you draw the line, Eomer?" Aragorn asked wearily. "We have requirements that must be met. We need to maintain a presence of some kind at the Gathering. We need to prevent an unknown disaster from taking place tonight, and to do that we must discover not only the targets but the nature of this unknown disaster. We must rescue lost comrades, and to do that we must discover their whereabouts and their captors. We must also fathom why live captives would be better than corpses and how long live captives will be esteemed useful. Additionally, we must investigate the Soltari tribe and the Warra tribe, but we must do so quietly. Where shall we start, Eomer? And how shall we divide ourselves?"

  


"Aragorn, what troubles you?" Eomer demanded, deciding that he had endured quite enough of this. "This is unlike you. You act as one lost, and yet we have discussed possible answers. Are they not enough for you? Come, what is truly the problem?"

  


It was a rare day when the king of Gondor was caught off guard by a question, but a look of surprise flashed across his face. Normally, Eomer would have been greatly amused by this, but at the moment, it only added to his conviction that something was very wrong with his friend.

  


"Usually, I can sense things before they happen," Aragorn eventually said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. He raised Legolas’s knife and studied the weapon, seeming to find comfort in the delicate workmanship of the silver haft. "Only rarely does this foresight fail me, and when it does, I am sometimes at a loss for direction. It does not help that my mind and thoughts have already been tampered with upon this journey. Perhaps it is taking longer for my foresight to recover from this. Perhaps I simply lack the confidence I once had. Whatever the cause, though, I no longer sense where destiny is leading us. And without the guidance that foresight once provided, I seem to be plagued by indecision."

  


Eomer blinked and stared at the king of Gondor. He had never expected such a detailed answer, but as he studied Aragorn, he wondered just how long his friend had been dealing with these feelings and misgivings. Gondor’s king was a very private individual, and as he had learned more of Aragorn’s past, Eomer had come to realize the reasons for this privacy and its extent. Thus, he was quite surprised to be told so much so quickly by a man for whom secrecy had once been equated with survival.

  


His confusion must have been evident upon his face, for Aragorn suddenly gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. "My apologies, Eomer," he said with a slight smile, though the mirth did not quite reach his eyes. "I fear you were expecting something different."

  


"Nay, my apologies," Eomer said hastily, trying to compose himself. "I did not know how deeply you had been affected. I should not have spoken as I did, for it seems that I have stirred memories which are less than desirable."

  


"Then I account us even," Aragorn said. "But though we may now be at peace with one another, there are still decisions to be made. I did not jest when I asked for your counsel. How would you divide us, Eomer? Where would you place your priorities? For I do not trust my own judgement at the moment."

  


Eomer grimaced and turned the problem over in his mind, attempting to see it from as many angles as possible. "You know my desires, Aragorn," he said after a minute or so. "You know that I wish to lead a search party into the desert after Legolas and Gimli. But your words have caused me to reconsider, and though my heart still yearns to ride, I think such a task would be better left in the hands of Arhelm. He is a capable captain, and the searchers will not be lacking for want of their king." Eomer pursed his lips, thinking a bit more, and then sighed. "This, then, is my counsel. You and I shall attend the Gathering for a brief period only. We shall send Arhelm out with fifteen riders to search for Legolas and Gimli. We shall keep Imhran at the Gathering Hall to act as a second on behalf of both Rohan and Gondor. We shall send warnings to the Lotessa tribe at least and perhaps to the Portu tribe also. Finally, we send a small team of Gondorrim scouts around the camps without Haradhur to search for anything that might be connected with Khurintu."

  


Aragorn nodded slowly, thinking through Eomer’s suggestions. "Your plan matches my own with but one exception. I would not send so many riders after Legolas and Gimli. I had envisioned Arhelm’s party as more of a reconnaissance team. Should they find our friends, they would send one back to alert the rest of us. By doing this, we keep more men here in Haradhur."

  


"By why should we wish to keep them here?" Eomer asked. "We have ample protection, and you have already theorized that we shall not be the first targets. What better use for them than to send them out upon a rescue operation."

  


"Too many trackers leads to too many trails," Aragorn argued. "Arhelm is not out to rescue Legolas and Gimli. Not initially. His first task is to find them, which shall be daunting enough. Once they are found, we can spare a large quantity of troops as well as ourselves for the purposes of liberating Legolas and Gimli. I would recommend that Arhelm’s group contain no more than five."

  


"If Arhelm chances upon the prisoners and sees a window of opportunity in which to act, he cannot do so unless he is properly supported by other riders," Eomer protested. An awkward pause fell, and then the king of Rohan smiled slightly. "Ten. Ten riders."

  


Aragorn returned the smile and sighed, shaking his head. "Ten, then, though what good ten shall do in battle I know not."

  


"They are Rohirrim," Eomer pointed out with a cheeky grin. "What is there that ten Rohirrim cannot accomplish?"

  


"My confidence wanes already."

  


"You do not know the Rohirrim well enough, then."

  


"Perhaps we should keep it that way," Aragorn said with a faint glimmer of a smile. "But now that we have concluded our business, let us give our orders to our men. Arhelm will wish to start early so that he may examine the desert ere the Khurintu caravan departs."

  


"Then we shall send him out now," Eomer said. "And Valar willing, Legolas and Gimli we be with us again ere sunrise."

  


"Valar willing," Aragorn murmured, but he did not sound as though he shared Eomer’s optimism.

  


* * * *

  


By nature, Imrahil was an exact, precise, and demanding man. He kept his records in perfect order, his own quarters were never anything less than scrupulously clean, and though he did not require such rigid standards among his men, he did see that his troops acted with order and discipline in all things. Because of this, Imrahil rarely found himself confused or uncertain. Things were almost always carefully planned out well in advance. Even upon the field of battle, most strategies that the prince of Dol Amroth employed were strategies he had formulated ahead of time in an attempt to account for all eventualities. And though his touch of elven blood did give him a penchant for foresight, he usually did not find forebodings to be distressing. They were merely omens sent to warn him, and he arranged his affairs accordingly so as to better meet whatever impending disaster loomed.

  


But this evening as his men prepared to set out on the journey to Lake Nurnein, the last stop before Haradhur, Imrahil found himself adrift and lost. It was a disconcerting feeling that further unnerved the prince, but there seemed to be naught that he could do about it. He could identify the cause of this unease, but he could not alleviate it.

  
__

What is wrong with me? Imrahil demanded of himself, rubbing his temples in a gesture of frustration that would have shocked his men had they seen it. When the Swan Knights had arrived at Lake Miyarr, Imrahil had told Mohart that his dreams and forebodings had quieted. He had told him that they were too late to stop a great catastrophe. Imrahil still believed this, but he had not been entirely truthful when he spoke of his dreams. They had not quieted, but they had certainly changed. And it was this change that was now puzzling Imrahil and occupying his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. Before this day, Imrahil’s dreams had contained images of Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, and Legolas in the desert. He had seen smoke and flame, both of which were very rare in Harad since fires were scarce. He had seen darkness reaching out over the land, and he had heard voices pleading for help. But this morning, all that had changed. He no longer saw the desert in his dreams. Instead, he saw the sea.

  


Ere he entered Harad, Imrahil had created a point of reference for his dreams. He had fixed in his mind an image of the place where grass became desert and water met sand. This image was to act as a reference for Imrahil when his sleeping mind tried to recall memories of Dol Amroth. The prince’s dreams were strange in that they took his present surroundings and attempted to make them a part of his remembered experience, and so he often needed a reference point so as to better order his dreams. His perfectionist idiosyncrasies extended even to his sleeping world. But this past day, when Imrahil eventually did sleep, he had not retraced his route over the sand until coming to the castle walls lined with crushed seashells. Instead, he had skipped the desert entirely and dreamed of the open ocean. He had seen ships. Many ships. They had rowed their way toward the mouth of Anduin. He had been unable to identify the boats, but he had sensed no good will from them. And as the ships drew near the shore, Imrahil had seen a small group of people waiting for them. Here the dream began to make more sense, for within this group of people were desert tribesmen. But with these tribesmen was a figure that was not from the desert. He was bound with strong ropes, and they had carried him to one of the ships. After that, the dream was filled with the sound of waves smashing against the shore while the shadow that had risen from the desert was joined by a darkness from the sea. Together, they crept forward, devouring all that stood in their path.

  


"Honored one?"

  


Such a thing should not be! His dreams should have returned him to Dol Amroth. Even if they had not made it that far, they should at least have stayed in the desert. But the sea…why the sea? Nothing and no one in his current surroundings had reminded Imrahil of the sea, and yet he had dreamed of it. How did the sea fit into this picture? Imrahil missed the vast waters of his harbor, that was true enough, but to dream of the ocean with no reference…

  


"Honored one!"

  


Finally registering that someone was talking to him, Imrahil shook his head slightly and turned his eyes to the side. "You have somewhat to say, Mohart?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded more composed than he felt.

  


"Nay, but I sense that you do," the tribesman answered, running narrowed eyes over the prince. "This morning and this past night you have not been yourself. What ails you, honored one? If something troubles you, would it not be better to share the burden rather than letting it fester?"

  


Imrahil stiffened slightly and studied Mohart. His men knew far better than to pry into his personal affairs. When Imrahil deemed information should be forthcoming, he gave out that information, but not until then. _He knows not my methods_ , the prince reminded himself, forcing his hands to unclench and his visage to soften. _He does this out of concern._ Taking a calming breath, Imrahil centered his thoughts and then turned his attention back to the conversation. "I have received strange omens of late," he answered, making his tone one of finality. "Take no thought for it. I shall be well."

  


Mohart looked less than convinced, but the prince’s voice seemed to deter him from further questions. "As you wish it, but remember that it is a dangerous thing to be alone in Harad. You are isolating yourself, honored one."

  


"I shall remember," Imrahil murmured, casting his eyes upon the still waters of Lake Miyarr. "Mohart, know you of any tribe within the desert that deals with sailors or those living upon the seacoast?"

  


The tribesman frowned, somewhat surprised by the question. "None come to mind. Perhaps in the far south they have dealings, for it is difficult for trade caravans to reach so far without coming to grief along the way. But to my mind, none of the northern tribes have ties with those near or upon the ocean. We are two different kinds of men, honored one. Sailors live upon waters. Tribesmen can only dream of them. It is difficult for our two cultures to understand one another."

  


"That was my impression as well," Imrahil said quietly, his brow furrowing. Mohart’s words made sense and matched what the prince of Dol Amroth already knew, but the lingering image of open waters would not leave his mind.

  


"Honored one?"

  


"Let us depart," Imrahil said, shaking his head and deciding to think on the matter as they rode. The crisp night air in his face might do much for calming his thoughts and so enable him to piece together the puzzle that currently troubled his mind. "The sun has almost set, and it is time for us to be away."

  


* * * *

  


Sharp, jabbing pain was Gimli’s first warning that consciousness was returning. Lost in muddied shadows, the dwarf tried to thrust the pain away, but it seemed that the more he battled, the stronger it grew. Eventually, the throbbing pain began to consolidate itself in his head and in his right thigh, slowly releasing the rest of his body from crippling agony. Gimli wondered if this was a good thing and decided he was probably better off not knowing. With that out of the way and firmly stowed deep in the back of his mind, the dwarf moved on to a different set of problems.

  


Where was he? What had happened? Surely Legolas hadn’t allowed him to drink that much. During the past few years, the elf had developed an uncanny talent for knowing exactly when Gimli had been given just a little too much to drink, and he usually intervened in time to save the dwarf from embarrassment. Of course, there had been times when Legolas’s mischievous side had allowed the dwarf to make a complete fool of himself before the elf had stepped in. But still, something about this hangover—if it was a hangover—felt different.

  


And hadn’t he woken already? Why did he have to go through this again? It seemed very unfair, but then no one had ever said life was fair. Most, in fact, claimed just the opposite. With a sigh, Gimli concentrated on opening his eyes. Maybe he could speed the waking process along by doing so. Fuzzy memories were beginning to dance through his mind, and with them came growing feelings of fear and bewilderment. His headache had completely isolated itself and now ruled the back of his skull by means of a mithril fist that seemed to have an obsession with pounding. The throbbing from his thigh was more distant and easier to ignore, but it was still a very real agony. Gimli heard himself release a small groan and he cringed at the weakness that plagued him, working harder to open his eyes and achieve full consciousness.

  


"Gimli?"

  


Ah, there was Legolas. And there also lay answers, or so Gimli hoped.

  


"Gimli? Gimli, can you hear me?"

  


The dwarf frowned. Legolas wasn’t usually this impatient. In fact, the elf sounded anxious. Why should that be? What could cause the normally composed elf to sound…well…frightened? Gimli gave himself a mental shake and continued with the waking process. He was now growing more aware of his body as well as the sand beneath him that served as a bed. It was comfortably warm in contrast to the rapidly cooling air around him. He was lying on his stomach, and the dwarf winced as he thought about how long it would take to get the sand out of his beard. But he quickly forgot that problem when he realized he had another, more serious, problem. His hands were tightly bound behind his back and his feet were roped together.

  
__

That elf is dead, Gimli thought, clinging desperately to the outside hope that this was an elaborate prank.

  


Unfortunately, he finally managed to open his eyes at this point and discovered that Legolas was probably not responsible for this. The elf was lying partially on his side with unblinking eyes fixed on his friend, and from what little Gimli could see, Legolas’s arms were also bound behind his back, and a thick cord wound around his ankles as well.

  


"This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into," the dwarf mumbled blearily, unable to think of anything else to say.

  


Legolas closed his eyes and a wave of relief seemed to sweep over his entire body. Then it was gone, and the elf was composed again so quickly that Gimli wondered if he had imagined it. "I believe I was the one urging for flight rather than fight, my friend," the prince said with a tight smile. Bright, elven eyes studied Gimli in the last of the day’s light, evaluating his condition with frightening scrutiny. "How do you feel?"

  


There it was again. To anyone else, Legolas would have sounded calm, poised, and collected, but to his best friend, the fair elven voice was pitched a little too high, revealing hidden distress and concern. _Of course, given the fact that we are both securely trussed, there is probably good reason for that distress and concern_ , Gimli thought bitterly. "I think I am none the worse for wear," the dwarf answered aloud, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts. "What happened? Wait…I asked that before, I think. Or did I?"

  


Legolas nodded slightly. "You did. You asked that question earlier today when you woke briefly, but then you fell asleep again. I was unable to give you an answer."

  


"How long…how long ago was that?" Gimli asked, trying to account for the fact that the sun seemed to be setting.

  


"A few hours, perhaps," Legolas said after a thoughtful pause. "Possibly more. You have been unconscious for most of the day, and I have had difficulty in keeping track of the time."

  


"Ah. I see." In actuality, Gimli didn’t see anything, but at least he now more or less understood how he’d missed the passing of time. He’d been unconscious. But he still didn’t know why, and Legolas had still not told him. "So, must I ask a third time today or are you going to grace me with an answer?"

  


"An answer to what?"

  


Gimli sighed and wished his head would stop pounding so he could better match the other at word games. "Legolas, what happened?"

  


The elf shifted slightly, a sign that Gimli instantly recognized as uncertainty. "What is the last thing you remember?" Legolas eventually asked.

  


Gimli had to search his mind for that one, and the process was hampered by the fact that his head had turned into a practice hall for the drums of Moria. "I remember Budari and Arabano coming to warn us," he eventually said. "That Destroyer of theirs had come again and apparently convinced Gartabo that I was also a herald of doom, so we were going back to camp before journeying into the desert. Afterward…" The dwarf frowned as his memories became choppy and confused. "We were at the tent. I know that. And you…you said something to me about…about Amon Hen. And I thought that strange until I noticed you’d set your bow and…I think I had my axe…and then…there was mention of the Morannon, but…" The dwarf attempted to recall something more substantial than those meager details, but after a few more minutes of struggling, Gimli was forced to admit defeat. "I have no memory beyond that," he confessed with a sigh.

  


"It is a wonder you remember that much," Legolas murmured. "I feared the blow to your head had done irreparable harm. It was a great relief to hear you speak a few hours ago."

  


"You have always told me that dwarves have thick skulls," Gimli said with a smile.

  


"And I am thankful that I spoke truly," Legolas said, his quiet voice filled with relief.

  


"Well, as true as that may be, it is also true that elves have wandering minds. You have still not told me what happened. Shall I now ask a fourth time or shall you speak?"

  


"There is not much to tell," the elf answered with a small shrug that caused him to wince. "And in truth, my own memories are jumbled. I was rendered unconscious not long after you fell. Still, I think I can better your story. We had arrived at the tent and entered when I sensed we were not alone. That was when I warned you by mentioning Amon Hen. Fifteen men attacked. You and I held our own for a time, but more arrived and they managed to drive us apart. That was when you were struck. At first, I thought the blow had killed you." Legolas shivered, apparently still haunted by that memory. He was silent for a moment before continuing, his voice softer and more solemn now. "I cannot recall with any certainty what happened after you were injured. Somehow I was rendered unconscious. I woke later to find that we had been taken captive."

  


"By whom?"

  


"Who else, Master Dwarf? The Khurintu tribe. Asbad, their leader, was among the men we confronted last night. I recognized his face."

  


Gimli cursed quietly, trying to coax his muddled brain into a higher state of alertness so that he could begin deciphering what the Khurintu tribe would want with an elf and a dwarf. "Have you been awake long?" he asked at length.

  


"I woke when they were pitching camp for the day. It was not long after they captured us."

  


The dwarf frowned. "And you have not slept since?"

  


Legolas shrugged again, this time managing to do so without wincing. "I thought it useful to evaluate our situation. And I was not hit as hard as you were. It was easier for me to stay awake. Also, I was concerned for you," the elf added, examining his friend again with piercing gray eyes that never seemed to miss anything. "You are still in pain," he stated.

  


Gimli grunted as he rolled off his stomach and onto his side, recoiling briefly as the world tilted crazily and then righted itself. "It is nothing," the dwarf managed. "Tell me of our situation, Legolas, since you put your time to good use and evaluated it. Tell me how we fare."

  


"Not well," Legolas sighed. "Our captors know their craft and they will not linger in one place for long. We will probably be moving once the sun fully sets. They had us in tents during the day as a means of shelter from the sun, though our own shelter left much to be desired. Samwise would doubtless have much to say about their concept of shelters, were he here." The elf was silent for a moment before shaking his head slightly and continuing. "If their intent was to weaken us, it was successful. I fear that, physically, I am at a severe disadvantage. And my mind is only now recovering from the heat it endured during the day."

  


"What are the men doing now?" Gimli asked. "And what do they plan to do next?"

  


"They broke camp not long ago and are packing yonder." Legolas looked over his shoulder and Gimli followed the gaze until he spied a group of men working with a collection of baggage. "As I said before, I suspect that they mean to travel soon. And I suspect that we shall be asked to accompany them."

  


The dwarf studied the men, which he had only noticed after Legolas had practically pointed them out for him. Apparently his mind was still not up to par, but it was becoming clearer. More or less. And as he observed his captors, he saw something rather odd. "Are they not watching us?" Gimli asked, noticing that he and the elf were being ignored for the moment.

  


The prince gave a small, mirthless laugh. "Do you think to escape? You, who have barely regained consciousness, can you break through the bonds on our wrists and ankles and restore feeling to our hands and feet? And even if you can, what then, Gimli? Can you navigate a way for us across the pathless desert sand? Can you find where the hidden lakes lie that would supply us with water? Can you lead us back to Haradhur, or even to Lebennin and Gondor? Because I cannot, my friend. I cannot."

  


The dwarf frowned. "Surely we have not moved so far that Haradhur is beyond your…" Gimli trailed off as realization slowly dawned. "Someone has placed you beneath _ú-glîr_ again."

  


"So it would seem," Legolas murmured, looking away. "I think now that the first time was merely a test to see if it was possible. Then they freed me from _ú-glîr_ so that I might not become too familiar with the use of limited senses. I fear, Gimli, that they were successful in their ploy. This has clearly been planned for some time, and we are but a small part of some larger scheme. We are pawns, my friend. Pawns to move at will, and we are now under the control of the enemy. And given the complications they faced the last time I was put beneath _ú-glîr_ , I do not think we are pawns destined for a long life. So long as we remain in their clutches, our days, nay, our very hours are numbered."

  


"You seem to have given this much thought," Gimli observed with a sigh.

  


"I have had little cause to think of anything else," Legolas answered quietly. He was about to say something else, but he stopped and looked over his shoulder again. His elven ears, impeded though they might be, had caught the sound of advancing footsteps.

  


Gimli glanced up and saw a large man walking toward them. It was the same man who had led the attack the night before. The last of the sun’s light reflected off the sharp tip of a long knife, and the man’s eyes gleamed above the wrappings that protected his face. Behind this man, falling into an orderly procession, the remainder of the group followed with the packed tents and baggage. Four unburdened, doughty men walked at the head of this line, and their eyes were fixed on the elf and dwarf. _Our guards_ , Gimli predicted, glancing over at Legolas. Judging from the set of the elf’s jaw and his intense study of these four men, Legolas had reached the same conclusion.

  


Gimli felt a flash of pity for these men who were now the subject of elven scrutiny. The dwarf himself had more or less grown used to said elven scrutiny after years of friendship with Legolas, but even he sometimes felt the urge to turn away if the elf watched him too closely for too long. Though Legolas would never match Galadriel, Gimli had learned that practically any elf had the power to make mortals feel utterly worthless. Being pinned beneath the gaze of an immortal who possessed both wisdom born of countless years and the unrivaled power of elven curiosity was enough to make anyone blanch. What made it worse in Legolas’s case was that the prince had grown aware of exactly how disconcerting this ability could be under certain circumstances, thanks in part to Gimli, and could now successfully employ it as a devastating weapon. And despite the crippling effects of _ú-glîr_ , Legolas was still quite capable of making almost any man cringe.

  


A knife suddenly flashed before Gimli’s face and his thoughts were interrupted when Asbad stepped forward and dropped to one knee between the dwarf and the elf. The man carefully studied first one and then the other, evaluating their condition and their mindset. Gimli noted with a small degree of satisfaction that the leader of Khurintu was unable to meet Legolas’s unblinking eyes for long.

  


"We are traveling this night," Asbad said in Westron, his harsh voice breaking through the dark stillness. "Your legs will be free so that you may walk, but you will both be guarded. And know this: I do not need you alive. It is easier if you remain so, but it is not a necessity. Should the circumstances require it, I will not hesitate to kill one or both of you."

  


Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly—a motion imperceptible to anyone but Gimli—and the dwarf interpreted it as a sign that the elf had swiftly reevaluated their plight and didn’t like his conclusion. Gimli was also doing some rapid thinking of his own, and he had to agree with Legolas. Things did not look good.

  


But before Gimli could get very far with his foreboding ideas, the bonds on his legs were cut and he was hauled upwards. He floundered for a moment as blood resumed its normal flow to his feet and almost toppled over when the world began to spin violently. The stiff, torn muscles from his wounded leg cried out in protest and he doubted for a moment whether or not his injured limb would be able to endure his weight, though he finally managed to steady himself. At the same time, Legolas was also raised to his feet. In contrast to Gimli, the elf did not stumble but continued to watch the humans around him with an intensity that could only be surpassed by wizards.

  


"One final item of importance," Asbad added as two of his men stepped to either side of Legolas and the other two repeated the maneuver with Gimli. "A wrong move by one will result in punishment for the other. I thought you should be made aware of that." Watching the prisoners to make sure they understood, he eventually nodded to his men, and they took their captives by either arm. "Forward!"

 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Author’s Notes: There are detectives in our midst, and they are getting very ingenious. Perhaps a bit too _ingenious, but it’s great fun to hear all the theories. And may I commend Dwimordene in particular for a very interesting theory she sent me via email. Although incorrect, it certainly got my head spinning about other possible plot ideas. Also, fliewateut must be added to the list of detectives for deducing what the Isengard gift to Khurintu is. Or at least guessing the location where it has made a previous appearance in canon. As for other detectives, Ithilien and Mari are still going strong but getting a tad too creative for their own good._ ;)

  
__

Anyway, I’ve dropped the last major obscure hint for the story in this chapter. The beans are going to start dropping next. So if you’re still trying to figure this out ahead of time, think simple. The best political moves are the simple ones, but they have to be cloaked in politics to be viable.

  


And a question has been posed concerning Imrahil. He is NOT my own character. He is Tolkien’s and he appears in Return of the King _as the prince of Dol Amroth, leader of the Swan Knights (who seemed to be Minas Tirith’s only real cavalry until Rohan showed up). He is Denethor’s brother-in-law and the major political authority down in Belfalas, though he does answer to Gondor. He also takes control of Minas Tirith when Denethor dies, Faramir is struck down, and Aragorn decides to play Ranger for a bit longer. And according to Legolas, he has quite a bit of elven blood in his veins. Go Imrahil._


	28. From Dark to Light and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Budari, tribal head of Lotessa, had seen quite a few Gatherings in his lifetime, and _Iluh_ willing, he would see quite a few more. But he could not remember a Gathering ever being quite this…tense. Or unpredictable. There had been occasions when Lord Sauron had sent advisors and observers to the Gathering, and during these times, a definite air of fear and hatred could be felt. The southern tribes, especially, had no great love for Sauron. They had no great love for Sauron’s enemies, either, but at least Gondor and Lebennin had not made a habit of stealing away young men for the sake of stocking an army. The northern tribes also contributed great numbers of men, but because they were closer to Mordor, they received a greater share of the benefits for their willingness to serve the Dark Lord. The southern tribes rarely saw anything in the way of compensation, and so a great dislike for anything to do with Mordor had been cultivated in the southern portions of the desert. And this dislike came to the forefront when the southern tribes were forced to deal with Sauron’s representatives at the yearling Gathering. Yet even then, the tension at the Gathering had almost always been at a manageable level. And there were no surprises such as a sudden attack, for Mordor prevented such things from happening. But now, that was no longer the case, and the air of uncertainty that pervaded the room had tainted this particular night beyond any reasonable hope of reclamation.

  


With a sigh, Budari noted that someone on the other side of the table was ranting about tradition and the possibility of yet another tribe withdrawing after this night. So far, five different tribes had come forward and announced their intentions to depart, a complete break with protocol and custom. Three others had hinted that they were considering such action. All the tribes were clearly ill at ease, something Budari could well understand, but what he could _not_ understand was why so many were ready to flee rather than confront the problem.

  


There were reasons, of course. Budari knew that. The appearance of the Destroyer, the disappearance of an elf and a dwarf who were said to be the cause of the Destroyer’s anger, the withdrawal of one of the most powerful northern tribes, the strange attack in the desert the night before…they were all disconcerting. Put together they were nothing short of terrifying. And yet…Budari shook his head. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he was not a superstitious man. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he knew much of what was actually happening. But what good was this knowledge and this grounded practicality if his tribe stood alone? He and his kinsmen were not here at the Gathering in full force. Many members of the Lotessa tribe had stayed in the south so as to maintain holdings on hidden lakes and carry out the odd raiding and pillaging mission. If Khurintu came with the bulk of its force and descended upon the Gathering, there would be no stopping them. Lotessa could not defy them without aid. Gondor and Rohan did not have enough men. But who else was willing to help them?

  


With a sigh, Budari glanced over at Aragorn and Eomer, neither of whom had said a word during this session. Eomer, in particular, seemed unusually quiet. Budari’s first impression of the king of Rohan had indicated that Eomer would sooner argue a point than listen to the reasoning behind it even though that reasoning might be sound. Yet now he was silent, his eyes fixed on the table and his brow furrowed as though in deep concentration. _Perhaps that is why he does not seek to interrupt or contradict_ , Budari thought. _He is not paying attention to the conversation but rather to his own suspicions._

  


This led Budari to yet another topic, and he frowned as he studied the two kings. Before the start of the Gathering, while everyone was collecting within the inner hall, Aragorn and Eomer had come to him and expressed grave misgivings about this night. They felt that Khurintu would unleash something that could be read as a sign from the Destroyer, and they felt that Lotessa might well bear the brunt of this attack. While Budari could not fault their logic, he had no way of preparing himself or his tribe He did not know what form an attack might take or when it would be carried out. He agreed that his tribe was at risk and he agreed that the Portu tribe would also be a likely target, but he could not fathom what Khurintu might do. By necessity, it would have to be a demonstration of great power and authority, yet what would that entail? And how did one prevent it when one did not know what it was?

  
__

I must search for something out of the ordinary, Budari decided. _Khurintu is not following their usual methods, and therefore something in this Gathering shall strike me as odd_. Budari sighed. This reasoning really didn’t help because quite a few things at this Gathering struck him as odd.

  


Still, there was one oddity that might be worth pursuing, and that was something that had happened just prior to sunset. According to Lotessa spies, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe had been seen leaving the Khurintu camp an hour before Dashnir and the Khurintu tribe left Haradhur. That was unusual. Soltari kept its dealings in the open so that they might never be accused of favoritism or treachery. It helped maintain their carefully constructed position of neutrality. Yet now the picture seemed to be changing. Fastahn’s meeting with Dashnir had been a rather secret encounter, and this raised the possibility that the Soltari tribe had become an agent for the Khurintu tribe. Perhaps they would be the ones behind the fulfillment of the Destroyer’s prophecies.

  


But Budari didn’t like that idea. The Soltari tribe had invested too much into their neutrality for them to abandon it now. There was another possibility that Fastahn was acting independently and a rift of sorts had formed within the Soltari tribe. But if that were so, then it came as a complete surprise to Budari. And while it was certainly not impossible to keep factions within a tribe secret, the Lotessa tribe kept a close watch on Soltari, for they were Lotessa’s primary source of agriculture. Budari felt rather confident about his sources on Soltari, and they had said nothing of any kind of a rift or a faction, much less one led by Fastahn.

  


A stir in the conversation around him drew Budari’s attention back to the Gathering, and he noticed that Eomer also seemed to be focusing on the meeting. Aragorn was impossible to read, and Budari wondered what thoughts had come to the king of Gondor. The ruler of the Lotessa tribe prided himself on his ability to judge thought and intent from faces, but he had met his match in the northern king. Budari had never before seen a man who hid his emotions so well. It was simply uncanny, and Budari wondered if there was a trick or two that Aragorn might be willing to teach him. Such a skill was invaluable during negotiations.

  


"Since there seems to much turmoil and much doubt, we shall adjourn for this evening," Aulit announced, effectively capturing the attention of everyone within the Gathering. Budari stiffened and managed to keep from protesting only with great effort. "I strongly urge all of you to consider your future actions well during this night. Together we are strong. Divided we become weak."

  
__

Nay, Aulit, that is not what we need to hear! Budari mentally groaned. If Aulit’s hope was to inspire others to stay at Haradhur and finish the Gathering, he was more foolish than Budari had ever dreamed. To maintain order and calm, traditions had to be followed. Ending a session of the Gathering early—especially when it had ended early the previous night due to a sudden attack—was an indication that something was wrong. It would do nothing to calm the nerves of already-frazzled leaders. It might even prompt more of them to leave.

  


But the damage was done now, and many of the leaders were already heading for the doors, no doubt intending to discuss events with their councils. If Budari were a betting man, his wager would be that at least one-fourth of the tribes would make plans to depart the next night.

  


Still, there was some good that came out of this. Granted with extra time, Budari might be able to decipher what was happening with Fastahn and the Soltari tribe. Quickly glancing around for Soltari’s leader, Budari was disappointed to see that Khesva had already left. But there would be time to search him out later in his own camp. If there was a rift within Soltari, Budari would be able to sense it in the encampment. And perhaps by openly confronting a rift, it might heal in such a way as to guarantee Soltari’s aid for the inevitable battle. It was a shot in the dark, Budari knew, for Soltari rarely involved itself more than necessary. Yet it had been strangely active this particular Gathering, and military aid might not be beyond them. At the very least, they might be willing to solicit other tribes for assistance on Lotessa’s behalf.

  


But there was another side to all of this that worried Budari. If Soltari had aligned itself with Khurintu—something that was still a remote possibility in Budari’s mind—then he might be walking into a trap by journeying into the Soltari camp. It would probably be best to travel with an armed escort. And it wouldn’t hurt to flex some muscle before Soltari, either. They had played with Lotessa enough. It was time to show them what a tribe of warriors could do.

  


"Perhaps it would be wise if you moved the bulk of your delegation into the city for this night."

  


Budari blinked and turned his head to meet Aragorn’s calm but concerned gaze. Hiding was exactly what tribes of warriors did _not_ do. "I do not think I heard you correctly," Budari said, giving Aragorn a chance to redeem himself. Perhaps he had been jesting.

  


"Yes, you did hear me correctly, and no, I did not jest when I spoke."

  


Aragorn was either exceptionally good at reading minute facial expressions or he had a talent for reading minds. Considering what he had seen from this man already, Lotessa’s leader was half-willing to believe that the latter of the two might be possible. Frowning, Budari studied the king of Gondor and then shook his head slowly. "You would have us cower in the city as a lizard beneath a rock?"

  


"I would have you survive the night," Aragorn countered.

  


"We have survived countless years in the desert while at odds with both other tribes and the will of Lord Sauron. We will survive a bit longer."

  


"What is it that we discuss?" a new voice questioned, and Eomer stepped up beside Aragorn.

  


"I was advising Budari of the prudence of taking shelter within the walls of the city," Aragorn answered, studying the tribesman through narrowed eyes.

  


"Ah," Eomer murmured. "Were I in his saddle, I believe that I would refuse such a request. I suppose that he is doing likewise?"

  


"Indeed he is," Aragorn answered.

  


Budari deepened his frown and attempted to send two glares in two different directions. He was not especially appreciative of the fact that Eomer and Aragorn were talking about him without really acknowledging him. It was almost as though they were working together to maneuver him into a trap, which would have been acceptable except that Budari had never faced a trap like this and so did not know how to avoid it.

  


"You say you would also refuse such a suggestion?" Aragorn was asking as Budari turned his mind to possible escape routes.

  


"Initially, yes," Eomer said. "The Rohirrim do not take well to hiding and slinking. However, after you had explained to me the plan to muster forces within the city and then to ride forth with those forces and meet Khurintu in the desert, I would reconsider my refusal. I would wish to keep my horses fresh, my men safe, and the morale of my company high."

  


"Interesting. Perhaps we should try explaining this to Budari," Aragorn said, glancing at the Lotessa leader.

  


"That would be good counsel. I do not see how he could then refuse our offer to accommodate his tribe within our camp," Eomer agreed.

  


Budari stifled a laugh and shook his head. They were strange, these men from the north, and their methods of persuasion were even stranger. It was quite humorous, actually. Aragorn and Eomer sounded very much like children looking to obtain some favor or gift from intractable parents. But then again, perhaps he should not take their efforts so lightly, for despite his pride, they were beginning to convince him. "What is this of mustering forces?" Budari asked, attempting to sound as though he was only reluctantly considering their ideas.

  


"Having discussed this matter at length before the Gathering commenced this evening, King Eomer and I have reached several conclusions," Aragorn answered. "First of all, Khurintu shall act tonight and attempt to capitalize on the disappearance of Legolas and Gimli. We know not what form their actions shall take, but whatever the result, it will be powerful and devastating."

  


"And you believe Lotessa to be one of the targeted tribes," Budari finished for the king, feeling a slight bite of impatience. "You spoke of this earlier."

  


"It has occurred to us that Khurintu will then ride back tomorrow night," Eomer said, picking up where Aragorn left off. "They shall wish to show their invulnerability to the prophecies of the Destroyer. And having an elf and a dwarf within their grasp, they shall undoubtedly wish to show their power over the so-called _abominations_."

  


"Which is why Legolas and Gimli were captured alive," Aragorn concluded. "When Khurintu returns, they will kill Legolas and Gimli before all the other tribes and in some grand fashion, leaving no doubt as to who has been granted power within the desert."

  


"So they will fulfill their own prophecy that the _Iluh_ will deal with your elf and dwarf," Budari sighed. "And who would dare to challenge them after that? They shall be seen as agents of the _Iluh_ and the saviors of the Haradrim. If they choose to claim power and make all other tribes vassals to them, none will stand against them. The Lotessa tribe and all other potential threats shall have been destroyed by whatever calamity comes this night. The kings of Gondor and Rohan will be dispatched as your small forces attempt to fight Khurintu without allies. The superstitious populace of Harad shall look upon Asbad and Dashnir as men nearly equal to the stature of Lord Sauron. The Gartabo tribe will have lost its standing by its failure to capture those it was commanded to take. Khurintu will rally the desert to unification and ultimately expand their empire northward." Budari gave a mirthless laugh. "Tell me, my friends. Have we forgotten anything of this grand plan? Or does the confusion caused by whatever they did to your elf still linger?"

  


"It lingers still," Aragorn murmured, his eyes clouding momentarily. "And because of this, we are unable to discover the final pieces of their puzzle. I cannot see beyond what we have discussed here, but there is more to their plans than this. Harad is not prepared to face a prolonged war in the north. Khurintu knows this. Even bereft of its kings, Gondor and Rohan will stand strong. Imrahil leads from Dol Amroth, Faramir and Arwen command the forces of Minas Tirith, Lothíriel can muster Rohan, the elves of Ithilien and the dwarves of Aglarond will to our aid by force of alliance…" Aragorn trailed off and shook his head. "They are planning something more, but as for what that something is, I cannot say."

  


"Beyond that, we still have not solved the mystery of the Warra tribe and the Portu tribe," Eomer added. "We do not yet understand their role in all this."

  


"Still, even with the mystery unsolved, I see that Asbad and Dashnir are well on their way to making Khurintu a successor to Mordor’s might and power," Budari sighed, rubbing his temples. " _Iluh_ take their Númenórean tricks! Had your minds and Arabano’s mind been able to function on the ride to Haradhur, you might have seen some of this in Dashnir."

  


"All of that is in the past," Eomer broke in, his voice indicating that he was eager to move on to other matters. "Brooding over it accomplishes nothing. Let us instead focus our talents and thoughts on what can be done now. We can gather within Haradhur, protected by the city from the forces set against us, and we can rally other Haradrim. You have told us that the Soltari tribe knows the identity of the Destroyer. Let us force them into sharing that knowledge with others. Khurintu can stand before a single tribe, but it cannot stand before the desert. We must all unite against them."

  


"Your suggestion is good, but it remains to be seen if we can convince Khesva and the Soltari tribe to share their knowledge," Budari cautioned. "There are recent developments that cast doubt upon Soltari’s willingness to assist."

  


"So Arabano warned us," Aragorn said. "Yet he did not tell us the origins of his suspicions."

  


"He had no origins at the time he spoke to you," Budari said. "We have had more information since then. But in one thing at least you have convinced me, honored ones. I shall move my tribe into the city for this night and the following day. I also know of other tribes that are beholden to Lotessa. I may be able to convince them of the need to ride to war with us. We shall seek them out and bid them join us. And as we walk to my camp, we shall discuss what preparations are needed to accommodate us within the city."

  


"And then you shall tell us what you know of Soltari," Eomer added, his eyes flashing. "We have been kept in the dark far too long, and at this point, secrets do not assist anyone."

  


"Nay, they do not," Budari agreed quietly. "Come, then. We shall find Arabano and depart for the camp of my tribe. And when we reach them, all shall be explained."

  


* * * *

  


Gimli could never clearly recall the forced march through the desert during the first part of that night. His headache quickly escalated into extreme regions of pain, and his mind seemed to be cloaked in a perpetual haze. His injured leg buckled continuously, and he wondered how much damage was being done as he forced it to hold his weight. In truth, only the strong grips of his guards kept the dwarf upright, and only their constant shoves kept him moving forward. But as the night began to wear on, his faltering feet grew slower, his wounded leg throbbed harder, his guards became more impatient, and his mind grew ever darker.

  


He was dimly aware that Legolas kept throwing him concerned looks. The elf had spoken up once for the dwarf, and for his troubles he had earned a violent blow to the side and a stern warning from one of his guards. He had not called out since then, but his eyes were constantly locking onto Gimli’s as though he could ground the dwarf to reality with his gaze alone. And for a while, it seemed to work. Looking into eyes that had been trained to command an elven army with a single glance, Gimli was steadied and his world ceased to spin so quickly. But when the elf was forced to look away, the shadows returned, and the dwarf found himself swimming against swirling currents of darkness and pain that threatened to swallow his consciousness.

  


Legolas was also surreptitiously attempting to slow the march on the dwarf’s behalf, something for which Gimli was intensely grateful in spite of the outcries of his stubborn pride. The dwarf was all too aware of his own diminishing strength, and he knew that a faster pace might require more than he had to give. And yet, after a time, Legolas’s small efforts were no longer enough. The all-anvil orchestra in Gimli’s head refused to die down and even intensified as time ticked away. His vision began to fade in and out, and all clarity was lost in a foggy dream. Equilibrium failed, and sometime during the night, despite all attempts to keep his balance, his wounded leg refused to take any more. He stumbled and fell, bringing down the guards who had kept a firm grip on his arms. A halt was called, he heard Legolas’s voice rise up in sudden protest, and then darkness overcame him. For a time, he knew no more.

  


He was next aware of a gentle touch on his brow and hushed, urgent words pleading with him to wake. Deciding that waking was the last thing he wanted to do, Gimli initially ignored the commands that filtered through hazy layers of consciousness. But the voice that called to him was nothing if not persistent, and eventually the dwarf gave in just to be rid of the constant encouragement. Struggling for a minute or so, Gimli eventually managed to open his eyes, something that he considered a rather noteworthy event. The next step was getting his eyes to focus.

  


"Gimli?"

  


What had happened to his sight? He couldn’t see a thing! His vision had tunneled, and all peripheral objects were lost. Even those things straight ahead of him were vague and blurred.

  


"Gimli?" the voice asked again, and there was a note of fear in the deceptively smooth tones.

  


The dwarf could make out that someone was bending over him now, and despite the fuzziness of his vision, he could dimly see two glittering gray eyes peering into his own. A flicker of relief passed through those expressive orbs, and then they closed momentarily before opening again, this time with more composure.

  


"It seems that the legendary hard-headedness of the dwarves is falling short of its renown," Legolas whispered. "You have been unresponsive for some time."

  


"My apologies," Gimli grunted, the memory of their current predicament swiftly coming back to him. How long had he been unconscious? Why hadn’t he been killed after falling and stopping the march? More than a little baffled, Gimli started to sit up, but Legolas held him down before he could even begin to rise. At this point, Gimli belatedly realized that neither his hands nor Legolas’s were bound. Now thoroughly bewildered, he shot the elf a look of complete and utter confusion. What was going on?

  


"They released me to care for you, and in turn, I released you," Legolas explained quietly.

  


Gimli frowned. "They do not fear that you will escape?"

  


"They know our hearts well," the elf answered with a sad smile, "and my own heart has bound me as surely as any chains. I have not the strength to carry you. The heat and _ú-glîr_ have seen to that. And they know that I will not leave without you."

  


"Foolish elf," Gimli muttered.

  


"You would do the same for me, _elvellon_."

  


"That is different," the dwarf grunted. "But why am I still alive? I would have expected them to kill me."

  


"It seems the original claim that we are still useful if dead was somewhat exaggerated," Legolas answered. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and then turned his attention back to Gimli. "They did threaten to kill you because you slowed our journey, but I was able to convince them that I could wake you. Asbad agreed to the attempt. He needs us, Gimli. He did not lie when he said that our lives were not completely necessary; I am certain of that. But we are far more valuable to him in the land of the living than we would be in the realm of the dead. If he can keep us alive, he will. For now, at any rate."

  


"You are fortunate, then," Gimli breathed, a twinge of fear and guilt squeezing his heart. "If it were not so, speaking out might have cost you your own life."

  


"I judged the risk to be worth it," Legolas said with a slight shrug as if to dismiss the matter. "But I had almost lost hope of rousing you until now. Will you be well enough to travel soon?"

  


"I will manage," Gimli said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The world still had a precarious tilt to it, and he wasn’t certain he could remain vertical were he to stand.

  


"I will stall for more time, but I can not stall for much longer," the elf warned. "I do not understand their speech, but I believe there is some rendezvous for which they are making. They are growing anxious to travel, and they will not wait indefinitely."

  


"Nay, you need not stall. I am able to travel now," Gimli assured him, attempting to sit up again, but once more, the deceptive strength of the elf held him firmly to the ground. The dwarf blinked and glared at his friend "What are you—"

  


"You are not able to travel now," Legolas said sternly. "Your leg wound reopened when you fell and the bleeding did not stop easily. More than that, you are starting to run a fever, and your thigh has become infected. I told you that I can obtain more time, and I wish for you to use that time wisely. Continue to recover. If you collapse again, I do not think I can prevent them from killing you. Asbad will have tolerated too much. And to kill you, _elvellon_ , they will first have to kill me."

  


Gimli blinked at this. "Legolas, I—"

  


Legolas clapped a hand over his friend’s mouth and gave him a look that would silence a wizard. "Rest, dwarf!"

  


At times like these, Gimli was sharply reminded that Legolas was a prince among his people and accustomed to getting his own way when he set his mind on something. Though normally content to step back and let others take the lead, Legolas had inherited a strong stubborn streak from his father, and he would not hesitate to employ his authority if push came to shove. And when faced with an angry, resolute elven prince, even Gimli would back down. It was usually safer that way, and now was no exception.

  


Relaxing back into the sand with some reluctance, Gimli couldn’t help but allow his eyes to slide shut when he felt a gentle elven touch on his temples, and he sighed softly. Much of the shooting pain in his head slipped away under Legolas’s ministrations, and the dwarf drifted into a blissful realm somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. The earth ceased to roll and buck beneath him, and he felt his equilibrium begin to right itself. Then a soft song in the Sindarin tongue filtered through to his hazy dream world, further quieting him. Despite the fog within his mind, Gimli heard and translated enough of the words to know that Legolas was singing of the sea. It was a sobering reminder that his friend was never truly content, nor had he ever been since hearing the gulls in the fair fields of Lebannin while they rode behind Aragorn and before the hosts of the dead.

  


His thoughts were interrupted when other voices—voices far less fair than the voice of Legolas—entered his dream. Then he heard the elf again, but the soothing tone from the song had been replaced by the tone of an affronted prince. There was much satisfaction in hearing the elf make use of his royal upbringing against others. The other voices answered his friend now, harsh and demanding, but once more, Legolas countered with all the authority of an incensed elven lord. Even Gimli, lost in vague dreams, trembled at the sound of the elf’s anger and was thankful he had made friends of Legolas rather than staying his enemy. He would not wish that voice to turn upon him.

  


More fleeting dreams swept the dwarf away from reality, and then the world shifted again. Gimli wondered what was happening and then recognized that Legolas was speaking to him. This time the elf was neither comforter nor prince but an anxious friend who struggled to hold back worry and panic. Full awareness was slow in returning, but the dwarf tried to hurry. Legolas sounded urgent, and this spurred Gimli on to greater efforts at coherency. Eventually he could make out the words of the elf’s speech, and he shivered at the hidden fear in the elf’s voice.

  


"Gimli? Gimli, open your eyes. You must open your eyes. Gimli? Gimli, hear me. You must wake. My friend, you must do this for your own safety. Open your eyes. If you value your life or mine, son of Glóin, open your eyes!"

  


With great effort, Gimli worked to comply with the request. It would mean leaving behind his peaceful sanctuary of semi-consciousness, but it would also mean that Legolas would stop calling him. Eventually, after a few failed attempts, he lifted heavy lids and met Legolas’s concerned gaze.

  


"It is time," the elf said quietly, fear and uncertainty lurking in the gray depths of his eyes. "The men will wait no longer. I have done what I can for you, but I fear it is not enough. Do you feel ready to travel?"

  


"Ready or not, I have little choice," Gimli grumbled, but in truth, he did feel somewhat better. His head did not ache so much, and for now, at least, the world had decided to stand still. He did not have much hope that this would last long, but it was still a welcome respite from the previous chaos that had made the ground rock beneath him.

  


"They have agreed to let me support you as we travel, and this means they will bind my hands in front rather than in back," Legolas said with a quick glance at the captors that were surrounding them. "But they will not do you the same courtesy. I tried to convince them otherwise, but I have already pushed our fortune too far. I am sorry."

  


"I am amazed you talked them into allowing even that much," the dwarf said quietly, ignoring his pride that insisted he needed no help whatsoever. "It is more than I would have been able to accomplish." He closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if he would be able to accomplish anything in the near future other than burdening his elven friend.

  


"Gimli? Gimli, listen closely to me," Legolas pressed. The dwarf opened his eyes again and looked obediently at the elf. "Do not struggle when they bind your hands," Legolas instructed, his voice so soft that it was almost inaudible. "Act as though you do not know what is happening around you. The more delirious you seem, the better."

  


"That will not prove to be a difficult task," Gimli assured him, wondering what the elf was planning. It was obvious that he had something in mind and the dwarf could see a curious gleam in the prince’s eyes, but he knew that the plan’s details would not be forthcoming until Legolas worked them out more fully.

  


"Move him away!" someone behind Legolas ordered. Hands seized the elf and he was pulled away from the dwarf, having only time to send one apologetic and yet strangely confident look. Then Gimli was being hauled to his feet and his arms were wrenched behind his back. It did not require much effort of will to refrain from struggling, for Gimli was too concerned with remaining upright. All his efforts were focused on the need to stay vertical, and it proved to be a great challenge.

  


"Easy, my friend." Legolas was back now and Gimli felt the elf catch and steady his swaying body. "Stay awake if you can. Lean back against me and take the weight off of your wounded leg. Good. Now rest for a moment. We will start the journey again soon."

  


Gimli sighed wearily as he relaxed, using the elf’s slender frame for support. He knew that dwarven honor should have been forcing him to stand on his own, but he had neither the energy nor the will to make even a slight protest. After a moment of subduing his inner voice of pride, he gradually became aware that Legolas was whispering hushed words in the elven tongue. Gimli had no understanding of them, but it seemed his pain and nausea diminished as Legolas continued. Then nimble elven fingers were attacking the ropes binding his wrists. There was a slight awkwardness in the movements and he decided that Legolas’s wrists were probably tied together by now, but this didn’t seem to be too much of an impediment to the elf. A short time later, Gimli felt his own bindings loosen slightly, and then Legolas stopped, apparently satisfied.

  


"Stay with me, Gimli. Stay with me for now," Legolas whispered, his voice pitched so low that it was nearly impossible to hear. "We must bide our time, but I promise you that you will not have to endure this much longer. I believe I might have discovered something that could be of use to us when we choose to make our escape."

  


"Don’t risk yourself," the dwarf managed to hiss in response. "One of us must survive this ordeal."

  


"I risk what I must," the prince said in a tone that flatly forbade any further discussion on the subject.

  


Gimli fell silent and let the argument slide, knowing that in his present mood, Legolas was beyond common sense and reason. Instead, the dwarf tried to make the world hold still long enough for him to get his balance. He couldn’t tell if he was leaning too far forward, too far backward, or if he was floundering to the side. He only knew that were it not for the elf’s support, he would be flat on his back in the sand. Or perhaps on his stomach. Or would he fall on his side? And if so, which side? And just how many sides did he have, anyway?

  


Then the voices of the Haradrim surrounded them, creating a clamoring din that was anything but intelligible to the fading dwarf. Fortunately, these voices were comprehensible to Legolas, and gently but firmly, he pushed Gimli forward, all the while keeping a tight hold on the dwarf’s right shoulder and trying to take some of the weight off his friend’s injured leg.

  


And so the forced journey continued. Gimli felt as though he walked in a dark dream with the elf’s firm grip upon his shoulder as his only anchor to the outside world. At times it seemed that voices intruded upon his darkened reality, always angry and always demanding. Then Legolas would answer these voices, his tone sharp, argumentative, and filled with all the authority of an indignant elven prince. Gimli would shiver at that sound, but pressure from the elf’s hands assured him that Legolas’s anger was not directed at the dwarf. And then Gimli would fade back into his dreams of shadows, conscious only of the strange need to keep moving forward and the constant, crippling pain that throbbed in his leg and enveloped his head in a suffocating grasp. Sometimes the pain was so near and so great that it became almost unbearable. But at other times, it was a distant curiosity, present but feeling as thought it belonged to someone else entirely.

  


Gimli was vaguely aware of a time when he stumbled hard and fell to his knees. Legolas was hauling him upward again before he truly realized what was going on, all the while whispering quiet words of encouragement. He then heard the harsh voices of the men who herded them as sheep. For a small moment, Gimli felt a flash of rebellious anger, but it was immediately swallowed up by concern when he heard what sounded like the impact of a club followed by an elf grunting in surprise and pain.

  


"Legolas?" His voice was weak and strained and the formation of simple words had become a daunting ordeal, but Gimli’s fear for the elf would not allow him to stay silent. How many other blows hat Legolas taken when the dwarf’s feet faltered?

  


"Keep moving," Legolas whispered in response to Gimli’s query, almost lifting the dwarf into the air as he forced them both forward. "Think of nothing else. Only move."

  


And so Gimli moved, obedient to the elven presence that kept him grounded in Middle Earth. And thus his dream continued, a mass of shadows and darkness with a single light behind him to hold it all at bay. But as the darkness grew darker and the shadows grew greater, the light slowly dwindled and faded until the dwarf could barely see at all. Then the world tipped, spun, and ultimately collapsed. The single light now flared brightly above him, demanding attention, but Gimli no longer had the ability to focus. Everything continued to fade until all that remained was darkness. And then he knew no more.

  


* * * *

  


Eomer stopped cold on the outskirts of the Lotessa encampment and turned to stare at Budari. "Fastahn went to see Dashnir?!"

  


Equally startled but hiding it for the moment, Aragorn quickly went through the plans he and Eomer had made while waiting for the Gathering to begin. It seemed that a few of them would have to be altered, particularly the methods of "persuasion" they had chosen to use in order to elicit Khesva’s support.

  


"Our spies saw him enter Dashnir’s tent and then leave after some time had passed."

  


"Were there any others in the tent at the time?" Aragorn asked.

  


"Nay, our spies say that the two of them were alone," Budari said. "Radarad of Portu had been in earlier, no doubt discussing his tribe’s involvement in the surprise attack, but he left before Fastahn arrived."

  


"Valar," Eomer murmured, rubbing his temples.

  


"Know you what Fastahn wanted there?" Aragorn asked, clinging to the hope that Soltari’s intentions had been honest.

  


"Our spies were not close enough to hear anything in the way of a conversation, honored ones," Arabano answered. "However, judging from his questions to me earlier in the day, it is possible that the Soltari tribe is reconsidering its position of neutrality."

  


"Or Fastahn could be acting independently," Budari added with a sigh. "His actions might not be sanctioned by Khesva. There is a possibility—albeit a remote one—that there is something of a rift within Soltari. Perhaps the tribe is splitting apart."

  


"Is it possible that we are jumping to conclusions?" Aragorn asked. "Your spies did not overhear the conversation."

  


"Even if we are wrong, it is best to act with prudence in this case," Arabano advised. "Alliances are tenuous at best, even the strongest ones. Soltari should be treated with great caution."

  


"Let us say that you are right, then," Aragorn said, deciding to play the game. "There is still the possibility that a part of the Soltari tribe would be willing to help us." Having finally gotten his mind working again and having hit upon a plan that seemed to promise success, he was not about to let it fall to the wayside. They had delayed too long, and they needed to act now. And given his present state of his mind and his limited foresight that was returning only reluctantly, Aragorn did not trust himself to engineer a second workable plan within the next few hours.

  


"But how shall we tell?" Eomer challenged, his frustration apparently getting the better of him. "Much of our plan lay in the coaxing of Khesva to join us and share with others his information. But can that still be done if Soltari has elected to move to Khurintu’s side?"

  


For some reason, Budari found this notion rather humorous, and Arabano could not quite keep back a chuckle. "Northerners. You are all alike," Budari said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You think the world can be divided into sides. Perhaps that is true in your lands, but in the desert, there are multiple aspects to every problem. Even we are not altogether on the same _side_ , as you put it, for we each have our own agenda and our own desires. For the moment, they happen to coincide. However, were we on opposite ends of an issue that led to bloodshed, I would not hesitate to slit your throat."

  


There was a rather awkward silence for a moment or two until Eomer finally spoke. "I see," he murmured, his tone one of uncertainty.

  


"If it eases your mind, I would regret the action," Budari added, almost as an afterthought.

  


"My thanks for your concern," Aragorn sighed with a shake of his head. Budari’s statement might be unexpected for Eomer, but it did not surprise Aragorn. It was a logical extension of basic desert philosophy. There was a saying in Harad that alliances were like hidden lakes. They were few and far between, they were coveted and guarded jealously, and they could be stolen away by other tribes. Nothing in the desert was ever permanent. But this mindset did not help solve the current problem. Aragorn still thought they were drawing hasty conclusions, but if Budari and Arabano were right and if Soltari’s "side" was closer to Khurintu than to Gondor, then much of their planning would have been for naught. To use a dwarven phrase, they would be back at the drawing slate.

  
__

I fear that we must become certain on the point of Soltari’s alignment before proceeding to anything else, Aragorn decided at length. _Too much rides upon it. Perhaps it would be best if we confronted them openly… It would certainly make Eomer happy. He has endured enough of secrecy._

  


"I would not regret slitting the throat of all my allies. You may count yourselves singular in that," Budari was saying when Aragorn turned his attention back to the conversation. It seemed that they were still discussing desert philosophy, and apparently Budari had sensed that his comments had stirred feelings of unease in Eomer. For his part, Arabano looked confused as to why such comments might elicit an unsavory reaction.

  


Deciding to redirect the conversation toward more pertinent matters, Aragorn cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. "My apologies," he said, "but I feel there are other areas that better deserve our scrutiny. Budari, is it possible to relocate your tribe to Haradhur in such a way that leaves you free for a short trip."

  


Budari raised one black eyebrow. "And where would I be going?"

  


"By your leave, I would take you with me to see Khesva. The Soltari tribe is not far from here and I would hear what they have to say in response to the reports of your spies. I would also have Eomer come with us, if he feels so inclined," Aragorn added with a nod toward the king of Rohan.

  


"I am grateful for the invitation," Eomer said, nodding back. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you."

  


A small smile crept over Budari’s face and he shook his head. "Ere you convinced me to join you in Haradhur, it had been my intention to travel with armed escort to the Soltari tribe myself and learn the truth of the matter. By all means, let us depart. Arabano, you shall be charged with the affairs of this camp. We shall take the southern perimeter guards with us to Soltari, so you need not be concerned with recalling them."

  


"As you wish, honored one," Arabano answered with a slight bow. "Though I will confess that I had wished to confront Fastahn myself."

  


"And doubtless you will have opportunity for it," Budari replied. "But for the time being, the welfare of our own tribe must come first."

  


"Then if we are finished here, let us depart," Aragorn said, feeling a touch of his old confidence returned. This action felt right. His instincts had returned and he was beginning to trust himself again. Translating word to deed, he began walking away, looking expectantly at Budari.

  


Following Aragorn’s lead, Budari nodded a farewell to Arabano and started moving. "We shall certainly give the poor Soltari guards a shock. I doubt Soltari sees much in the way of visits from kings and tribal leaders."

  


"Shock may be exactly what we need at this point," Aragorn said quietly. "We have been far too predictable in our actions, and such a thing can only play into Khurintu’s hand. We need to make bolder moves." The king of Gondor flicked a glance over his shoulder to see if Eomer was smirking—for such a statement would seem far more natural coming from him than from Aragorn—but he stopped when he noted that Eomer was not following them. He was still standing next to Arabano—who looked rather confused—and staring at two soldiers near Lotessa’s main tent. "Eomer?" Aragorn called, questioning.

  


Eomer turned slightly, and at the look on his face, Aragorn felt his blood chill. "Budari, what is it that your guards hold over yonder?" the king of the Mark asked, his voice carefully neutral but his eyes flashing with sudden fear.

  


A rather puzzled Budari looked in the indicated direction and frowned. "I know not. Do you wish me to investigate?"

  


"If you would," Eomer answered in a tone that would not be countermanded. Had he not been so alarmed, Aragorn would have been impressed. Such a tone might make even Thranduil sit up and take notice.

  


Budari nodded—though he looked as though he desired an explanation—and obligingly walked toward the guards that had earned Eomer’s undivided attention. Noticing his approach, the men turned quickly and bowed, awaiting instruction. "That bag you carry," Budari said. "What is it?"

  


"We know not, honored one," one of the guards answered. "It was found near your tent and we were debating as to whether or not it should be brought to your attention." Having said this, the guard presented Budari with a rather lumpy sack.

  


Standing slightly behind the tribal leader, Aragorn studied the sack closely, but he could see nothing about it that would attract Eomer’s interest. It was a fairly ordinary bag made from what appeared to be mûmakil hide. There were no unusual markings on it, and nothing about it indicated it could be a threat in any way. It was certainly not out of place within a desert camp. Shooting Eomer a questioning look, Aragorn was startled to realize that Eomer was not watching the bag but rather the guard’s hands. They were coated with a fine layer of black powder, which was strangely familiar for some reason, but Aragorn could not remember where he had seen such a thing before. 

  


"There are more of these bags, honored ones," the guard was saying. "A few lie further out while others are near some of the tents on the northern side of camp. We cannot remember their having been here before tonight."

  


"Strange," Budari murmured, opening the bag and allowing some of its contents to spill out onto his hand. "I have seen nothing like this before."

  


And that’s when recognition hit Aragorn like a charging Balrog. He felt his stomach drop into his knees, his throat went dry, and his eyes immediately went to the desert beyond the camp, searching the darkness for—

  


"Aragorn!" Eomer cried, pointing toward the north. And quickly turning this direction, Aragorn gasped. Almost beyond the range of sight, he could see a tiny flicker of red. A glimmer of flame.

  


"Fly!" Aragorn cried, seizing both Arabano and Budari and propelling them forward. "Tell all to leave the camp. We must—"

  


But Aragorn was not allowed to finish his sentence, for a sudden blast of pressure, heat, and sound slammed into him. All air was forced from his lungs, and when he gasped for more, it seared its way down his throat. The world tumbled head over heels around him, and time seemed to slow into eternity as a wave of fire exploded outward from a point on the camp’s outer edge.

  


His ears ringing and his skin blistering, Aragorn abruptly realized that he was airborne and flying forward. Behind him, a blinding light roared up from the ground and the world was filled with a deafening sound that was like and yet unlike the clap of nearby thunder. Sand and fire rained down, a plume of flame shot skyward, and all of Arda shook and clamored as though being overrun by a battalion of trolls. Then the ground rushed up to meet Aragorn’s falling form, but there was no time to even raise his aching head off the sand ere a second explosion did it for him. Flung sideways into the air, Aragorn did the only thing he could do; he pulled into a protective ball and sent up pleas to the Valar for help. But his cries were in vain, and he had not even hit the ground again when he saw a third wave of light and fire erupting next to one of the guard tents while a fourth explosion went off behind him. Caught between two colliding waves of pressure and flame, Aragorn’s consciousness fled, plunging his world into blackness. His last sensation was one of fire, and then everything went silent.

 

  


 

  
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Elvellon—Elf-friend

 

  
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Author’s Notes—In my defense, may I say that the last two paragraphs of the chapter were NOT inspired by the Two Towers movie (though I have now seen it twice). The plot has been outlined almost completely for quite some time and this particular section has actually been written for quite a while. It’s just been waiting for the other sections to be finished. Anyway, I came up with this on my own.

  


To Ithilien, I once thought about having revenge as part of the motivation, but like you, I couldn’t see anyone going to this much trouble to accomplish it. Apparently we think alike. I pity you, if that’s the case. ;) _Anyway, the primary motivation—as you’ve probably deduced by now—is power. Khurintu is making a power play in a vacuum that was created by Mordor’s fall. A power play seven years in the making, I’ll grant you, but since communication is slow in the desert and tends to be jumbled, I figured it was plausible. It always felt odd to me that no one tried to assume Mordor’s position when Sauron was defeated, so I fixed that with this story. Satisfied me, anyway._


	29. Falling and Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

"Gimli?" Legolas’s panic reached fever pitch as he crouched protectively over his fallen friend. "Gimli?!" Around him, the elf could hear the sounds of a halt being called as well as the ring of drawn blades. But Legolas studiously ignored them, instead concentrating all his efforts on the dwarf who moaned feverishly in the sand. "Gimli!"

  


"You claimed that you could support him," a voice called out, and Legolas looked up with wild eyes as the man he assumed to be Asbad stepped forward. "You were warned about the consequences should you fail. Step aside."

  


"I will wake him," Legolas said firmly, putting into his words every ounce of royal authority that he could muster. Had Thranduil been there to see him, the king of Mirkwood would have been proud. "Leave us be for a moment. I will rouse him."

  


"You were already given that chance," Asbad answered, countering royal authority with harsh reality. "You failed." He nodded toward the surrounding men and they closed quickly, knives and swords brandished. "Stand down and things may go easier for you."

  


But Legolas had no intention of letting these men carry out their orders. Waiting with all the awareness and all the latent energy of a coiled viper, the elf hovered above Gimli’s form, his eyes measuring each guard and promising death should they continue to advance. To his credit, a few of the men paused, uncertain. But some braved the threat lying within the elf’s eyes, and when the foremost man was within striking distance, the lord of Ithilien leaped into action.

  


Had Aragorn been there to see it, he would have stared to see Legolas so sluggish. Had Gimli been awake, he would have cringed at the elf’s complete lack of fluidity and grace. Had any of Legolas’s mentors and trainers from Mirkwood been present, they would have shaken their heads in dismay at such sloppy fighting techniques. But the soldiers of the Khurintu tribe were the only witnesses of Legolas’s desperate attempt to save Gimli’s life, and they had no experience with elven warriors. As such, they were completely unprepared for what happened next.

  


Remembering to keep his balance centered as Gimli had taught him during their sparring sessions, Legolas flung his shoulder into the first man’s midsection. Startled and winded, the guard’s grip on his knife loosened, and the elf’s bound hands quickly wrested the blade away even as he lashed out with his foot, catching the man in the chest and forcing him back onto the point of another knife. Then two more guards were lunging, and Legolas dodged while bringing up his newly acquired weapon. He caught one man in the head with the hilt and buried the blade in the other man’s neck.

  


Springing backwards and resuming his position above Gimli, Legolas wondered if he had time to reverse the knife and cut through the bonds on his wrists. But the answer to that question came quickly when a fourth man seized him from behind and raised him off the ground. Acting almost without thought, Legolas jerked his head to the side and flung the knife over his shoulder, praying that his aim would be true. A sudden gasp informed him that he had succeeded. The restraining arms dropped away, and Legolas threw himself back over Gimli as the man who had seized him dropped to the ground, the knife lodged in his face.

  


The surrounding men raised an outcry and charged forward, murder now their objective. Knowing his end was near and that he had failed both himself and the dwarf, Legolas gave a weary sigh and prepared to make his final battle one that would cost the Khurintu tribe dearly. But just before the first sword swung down, a shout from outside the circle of men stopped them all cold. The cry was repeated, and the men started to back away, though there was great reluctance in their faces. Other men who had not been initially involved now stepped forward with drawn bows, training their arrows on both Legolas and Gimli.

  


Watching the archers warily, Legolas shifted until most of Gimli’s body was covered by his own and then turned his eyes toward Asbad, who was stepping back into view. Something in the man’s countenance had changed, but whether this was a change for the better, the elf could not say. He wondered if he should be thankful for the fact that he and Gimli were still alive. Their ultimate fate was less than certain, and if some torment was devised as retribution for his rebellion, the elf would much rather perish now and perish quickly by the bow. He could not speak for the dwarf in this, but he suspected that Gimli would feel the same. It seemed they were fated to die anyway. Why not die quickly in battle?

  


After a few moments of tense silence, Asbad stepped closer to the elf, his eyes wandering over the forms of the fallen men. "You still refuse to leave his side?" he asked, though it was actually more of a statement than a question. Legolas’s position made it abundantly clear that he was not going to move.

  


"Would honor and friendship compel any less of you?" the elf returned, watching the man’s movements closely through narrowed, stormy eyes. "Or perhaps you know nothing of such things."

  


There were angry murmurings in response to this, but Asbad raised a hand and his people fell silent. "Bold words for a captive," he said, dark eyes flashing in the night. "You are either very brave or very foolish. Perhaps both. In any case, neither is to your advantage now. Tell me, elf. Do you realize who I am? Do you know who it is that you defy?"

  


"It matters not who carries the evil so long as I am able to fight it," Legolas said quietly.

  


"Do you truly believe that?" The leader of Khurintu stepped even closer and Legolas tensed, readying himself to repel an attack. Seeing this preparation, the man stopped and smiled slightly. "You are more naïve than I first thought. A small evil can be easily dealt with. A great evil requires more force than you possess. Do you still say it matters not whom you face? And what is the nature of evil? How can you be certain that I am evil? Why not you? Are you not a stranger in our land sent to intimidate our people into submission?"

  


Legolas made no response, but his level of alertness increased, sensing that Asbad was coming to a conclusion of sorts.

  


"Well, then, if you will not answer, I shall speak of what is to be done." Asbad stopped and watched the elf closely as though expecting a reaction. Legolas met his look with elvish inscrutability and his own piercing stare. It was a small satisfaction when the man was forced to drop his gaze, instead focusing his eyes on the dwarf sheltered beneath the elf. "There are four hours before dawn," he said slowly, drawing his sentence out as though relishing the power he had over his prisoners. "If you can carry your friend and match our pace for the next four hours, we will spare his life. If not, we will kill the dwarf and I will allow my men the freedom to visit their anger upon you."

  
__

Four hours?! Legolas’s heart fell with despair. He did not think he could carry Gimli for five minutes, much less four hours. The day spent in nearly fatal temperatures had sapped most of the elf’s strength, and _ú-glîr_ as well as fear for Gimli had made recovery slow. 

  


"Do you have a response?" Asbad asked when Legolas hesitated. "Or shall we kill you both now?"

  
__

Though I may be shadowed, I am still an elf, Legolas told himself firmly, glancing down at Gimli. _I can do this. I_ must _do this. There is no other choice._ Releasing the breath he’d been holding, the elf looked up darkly and nodded his agreement.

  


His face showing something that might have been read as amusement, Asbad signaled one of his men forward. Bowstrings were drawn taut when the bindings upon the elf’s wrists were cut, but Legolas harbored no hopes for escape at the moment. Any attempt would be futile at best and fatal at worst. Bereft of weapons and burdened with an unconscious dwarf, he might manage two steps before the arrows brought him down. So the elf instead knelt by Gimli and slid his arms beneath the dwarf’s sturdy frame. With a stifled grunt, Legolas lifted and closed his eyes against the strain.

  
__

When we return to Minas Tirith, Gimli, you and I shall begin a fitness regimen, the elf vowed as he struggled to raise his heavier companion. Slowly and with great effort, Legolas managed to stand with the dwarf in his arms. Gingerly, fearful both of disturbing the injured leg and of dropping Gimli, he began shifting the dwarf’s weight about so that it would be at least somewhat manageable, though he strongly suspected that no matter what he did, his left arm would be numb ere long. But at least they had a chance again, albeit a slim one. Steadying his burden and composing his face, Legolas opened his eyes and turned them toward his captor. "It seems you will not be rid of us so easily," he said quietly, praying that the abrupt increase in his rate of breathing would go unnoticed.

  


"We shall see if your words are as brave after we begin traveling," Asbad retorted, sounding as though he knew exactly how much of a strain the dwarf was for the weakened elf. "And by your leave, I would make up for my lapse in manners. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, I am Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, descendent of the Númenóreans enlightened enough to serve the Dark Lord, and kinsman to he who was known as the Mouth of Sauron. You would do well not to cross me, for as you have already discovered, our talents can overcome even the fading elves."

  


To his credit, Legolas’s face betrayed nothing, and only a flash in his eyes revealed any emotion. But within his heart, anger and rage flared to life. _Fading elves, indeed_ , he thought darkly. _Remove_ ú-glîr _, cease to threaten Gimli, and then we shall see how you deal with_ this _fading elf._ But none of these thoughts appeared in his countenance, and he kept his expression placid.

  


Asbad seemed to be disappointed at the lack of reaction, but he quickly shook it off. "Now that we are better acquainted, my lord prince, I think it is time for us to be off. But you have pressed your luck far this night, and I advise you to more humbly submit to captivity in the future. My men have no affection for either you or the dwarf, and they will happily slit your throats at my command."

  


"I cannot submit to one who holds no sway over me," Legolas said, shifting Gimli’s weight as his predictions about a numb arm began to bear out. "As a prince, I answer only to a king, and you, _mortal_ , are not that king."

  


"Then learn to pretend that I am that king," Asbad warned, his eyes flashing with hints of anger, "or your friend’s life is forfeit. As for holding sway over you, it is not necessary. The dwarf does that for me." He then turned to his men and spoke orders in their own tongue. When he was done, he gave the prince a mocking bow, gestured with his hand, and began walking.

  


Legolas felt the point of a spear scratch against his lower back while another brushed against his side. The elf obediently moved forward, but his temper was flaring dangerously. Had he been alone, most of the men would have died right then. Only Gimli’s weight in his arms kept him grounded, and for the sake of the dwarf, he bit his tongue and held his anger in check. Yet it was a hard thing, and Legolas’s elven pride was screaming for action. Trying to adopt a calmer frame of mind, Legolas took a deep breath and concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other. But he would not be able to endure either the physical strain or the injuries to his pride for much longer.

  


Grimacing, Legolas shifted Gimli yet again, trying to get the dwarf partially over his shoulder and so relieve his arms. But that only made him stagger to the side, and deprived of a balance that had once been certain, Legolas eventually decided that Gimli would have to stay cradled in his arms. Their future was taking on a rather bleak outlook, and the elf wondered just how long they had left to their lives. Elven stamina was considerable, but so was the dwarf. Gimli’s weight was at least the equal of Aragorn’s for all that he was half the king’s size, and Legolas was already weak. And there was another problem that Gimli’s state of unconsciousness brought. The prince’s plans for escape depended upon an alert and at least partially active companion. He could not escape while lugging his friend about.

  


And so with a deep sigh and a shake of already tiring muscles, Legolas trudged onward, very conscious of the unsheathed weapons behind him and desperately hoping that the dawn would grant him new strength. But then, that was dependent on whether or not he lived to see the dawn. At the moment, it seemed doubtful.

  


* * * *

  


Sensation and consciousness were slow in returning. Struggling upward through hazy layers of thought, Eomer wondered what was going on. His short-term memory seemed to be absent, and his long-term memory was strangely reticent to relinquish specific information about his predicament. He had only vague details from events long past with which to judge his body. Still, something was better than nothing, and thus armed with what little knowledge he had, Rohan’s king attempted to decipher what had happened to him.

  


The first possibility that came to mind was that of drugging, for drugging might render one bleary and unconscious. It had also been one of Wormtongue’s favorite tricks if he needed someone to arrive late for a particular council meeting. But then again, Eomer couldn’t rule out less sophisticated methods, such as hard blow to the head. But…wasn’t Wormtongue dead? Confused, Eomer started listing other probable causes of his apparent unconscious state. Drowning was a possibility. So was hypothermia. Extreme exhaustion, perhaps, but Eomer doubted that such was the case. In fact, now that he was recovering somewhat, he could detect a shooting pain in his left shoulder as well as a burning sensation up and down the right side of his body.

  
__

Which means that drugging is probably not the answer, Eomer reflected even as he fought the urge to moan. If he opened his mouth now, it would probably emerge as a scream. _I can also rule out drowning. And even if I was hit on the head, something else has happened to me. Perhaps a fight? A war? Was I in a battle?_ With a frustrated mental sigh, Eomer attempted to open his eyes and rise to a sitting position. His first try was pitifully unsuccessful, but he did manage to move his right arm. This elicited a fresh burst of piercing agony, but it proved that he was still capable of movement. At the moment, Eomer was very thankful for that.

  


"Eomer?"

  


And in addition to proving he could still move, it had apparently attracted attention. _As well as telling me that Aragorn is here_ , he added, attempting to subdue the voice of his pride. Normally, Eomer would shrink at the thought that someone was tending to his fallen form, but given his current condition as well as the sudden feeling that danger was lurking nearby, the king of Rohan decided to submit to Aragorn’s ministrations. He still could not open his eyes and he did not quite trust his voice, but with his ears he followed the sounds of Aragorn’s feet until they stopped next to his side. He heard the king kneel and then he felt a tentative touch at his throat.

  
__

He is looking for a pulse, Eomer realized, wondering if the situation was indeed that dire. _Does he think me dead?_

  


"Thank the Valar," Aragorn murmured somewhere above him. The hand at his throat moved to hover over his mouth, possibly feeling for breath, and then it came to rest on his left shoulder, gently prodding. Something about the entire process felt very odd to Eomer, but he could not say what was odd until he realized that Aragorn was only using one hand.

  


Suddenly concerned for his friend, Eomer renewed his efforts to open his eyes. Like previous attempts, he met with failure, but the king of Rohan would not be daunted. Trying again and again, he struggled past the holds of unconsciousness, and by so doing he gained an even greater awareness of his surroundings. There was a crackling sound coming from his right that indicated a fire of some kind. At first, Eomer did not appreciate the significance of this detail, but something about it troubled him. There should not be fire here.

  
__

Why? he demanded of himself, his frustration rising to the forefront of his thoughts. _Why should I not be hearing fire? What is it that…Harad!_ Memory started returning, and along with memories came Aragorn’s words about the scarcity of fire in Harad. _But then, what is burning?_ he asked, his brow furrowing as he attempted to understand this puzzle. Gathering what energy was left to him, Eomer once again tried to open his eyes. And at long last, he was rewarded with success. Dark, blue eyes opened on a devastated world, and the king of Rohan could barely keep back a gasp as the last of his memories returned in a disorienting and nauseating rush.

  


"It is very good to see you awake, Eomer," Aragorn murmured behind him, his voice filled with relief.

  


Eomer turned his head—he was not yet up to moving his body—and studied the other king, having heard a tremor of pain in Aragorn’s voice. He inhaled sharply at what he saw. One side of Aragorn’s face was red and burned with blisters already rising. Blood welled up from a gash in the king’s brow, and his hair was badly singed. There was no way to discern what hurts might lie beneath the charred and seared clothes, but if Aragorn’s posture was any indication, there were wounds that could not be seen. "You are injured," Eomer observed at length, deciding to stick with the obvious since his own condition was probably no better.

  


"As are we all," Aragorn answered shortly.

  


"The blast…" Eomer whispered, closing his eyes. "Orthanc Fire. I had never thought to see such a thing again."

  


"Then we agree that this attack was similar to the attack in Helm’s Deep after Gimli and Gamling had blocked the culvert?"

  


"Identical," Eomer answered. "I still remember the gaping hole in the Deeping Wall, and I remember well the blast that caused it. It was my hope that Orthanc Fire had become a weapon of the past." Deciding to test the limits of his body, Eomer attempted to sit up, but he was stopped by Aragorn’s hand on his good shoulder.

  


"Not yet," the king of Gondor cautioned. "Lie still. You were hit by flying metal which laid open a wound in your left shoulder. I am about to clean it, and I will ask you to brace yourself while I do so. There may be splinters yet within the wound, and I will need to remove them."

  


Eomer nodded wearily and forced himself to relax. It was difficult, for the warrior within him wished to be up and seeking retribution, but the logical part of his mind told him that such a thing could wait until he was better prepared to dole out his wrath. "What of Budari and Arabano?" Eomer whispered, wincing slightly as Aragorn worked on his shoulder.

  


"They lie unconscious behind us," Aragorn answered quietly. "They seem to be in better shape than we, but they both hit their heads on something. They have yet to show signs of waking"

  


"The rest of Lotessa?"

  


"I do not know. I see guards scattered about, and some are beginning to stir. But I believe the bulk of their force is now gone."

  


Eomer swore quietly. "How is it that we survived?"

  


"We were caught between explosions. Others not so fortunate were caught within the blasts themselves."

  


Trying to comprehend the consequences of this latest development, Eomer suddenly become very aware of the fact that his companion was far from well. "Aragorn, would not this process be faster if you used both hands?" he eventually asked.

  


"It probably would," Aragorn answered laconically, winding a torn strip of tunic around Eomer’s shoulder.

  


The king of Rohan scowled and directed a pointed look toward Aragorn’s left arm, which, insofar as Eomer could determine, had not moved at all in the time he had been awake. "Then why do you insist on making this a slow ordeal? I am not enjoying it, and I daresay you are not enjoying it, either."

  


"Because some things are beyond my reach."

  


Rolling his eyes at the pun, Eomer refrained from hitting the other king only because he knew that he would seriously regret moving his shoulder so quickly. "Aragorn, what is wrong with your arm?" he demanded, deciding that the direct approach was called for in this case.

  


"I cannot say with any amount of accuracy," Aragorn said quietly. "It is difficult to evaluate one’s own health."

  


"Then what do you _suspect_ is wrong?" Eomer asked, hoping that persistence would eventually award him answers.

  


With a sigh, Aragorn finished wrapping the shoulder and secured the bandage tightly. "I suspect that both bones of the forearm are broken. The wrist, too, is either broken or badly sprained. More than that, I cannot tell." Aragorn then moved back and studied Eomer for a moment. "Let us see if you can stand. It would be unwise to linger here."

  


Allowing the conversation change to stand since he had succeeded in eliciting information, Eomer slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and grimaced at the throb in his head. "Think you that our enemy might come into the Lotessa camp?" he asked. "My first suspect would be the Khurintu tribe, and I doubt they shall risk a public appearance."

  


"I agree, but there are unscrupulous men from many tribes in the desert, and they would not hesitate to take advantage of our misfortune. We must be up and moving quickly." Aragorn’s right hand then found its way beneath Eomer’s unijured arm, and he tugged gently. "Come. All the way up. But slowly! There may be wounds we have yet to find."

  


Eomer obediently struggled to his knees. The world spun briefly, but it was not enough to give cause for alarm. Wincing and feeling almost every muscle ache as it was asked to move, Eomer gathered his feet beneath himself and rose, swaying slightly. Aragorn steadied him, and ignoring the protests of an already indignant pride, Eomer allowed it. He wasn’t certain that he could stand on his own, and he had no desire to discover what falling down would do to his pounding head.

  


"How do you feel?" Aragorn asked.

  


"Better," Eomer answered, pulling his thoughts together and taking a few experimental steps on his own. "Yes, much better."

  


"Good," Aragorn murmured. "Now, if you would assist me, we will see to—"

  


"Before we do anything else, we are going to see to your own arm," Eomer interrupted. "If it is indeed broken, as you say, it must be splinted. And the sooner, the better."

  


"The bones need to be set," Aragorn warned. "And I cannot set them myself."

  


Eomer nodded. "I can set bones," he said, looking for something with which to form a splint. "I learned much in the way of medicine on the battlefield. This is not new to me. Sit, Aragorn. It is now your turn to brace yourself."

  


With a quiet laugh that seemed rather devoid of real mirth, Aragorn lowered himself to the ground while Eomer picked up a length of broken metal and tore apart the sleeve of his tunic. "Do not enjoy your role as a healer too much, son of Eomund," Aragorn cautioned with a wry look. "You will need further treatment when we return to camp."

  


"As will you," Eomer returned, kneeling beside the king of Gondor. Moving slowly, he picked up Aragorn’s left arm and tried to ignore the wince that accompanied the act of unlacing the gauntlet. With a grimace at the odd bend of the forearm, Eomer looked up and caught Aragorn’s gray eyes with his own.

  


"I am prepared," Aragorn said in answer to the unspoken question.

  


Eomer nodded, and with a firm grasp on both the upper and the lower forearm, the king of Rohan pulled. A sharp hiss and a sudden pallor were the only indications that Aragorn had felt any pain, and taking this as his cue to proceed, Eomer began to adjust the bones until they slipped back into place. Working quickly now, he pressed the metal against Aragorn’s arm and wound his sleeve around the limb, binding it tightly. "We might find something more suitable in camp, but this will do for now," Eomer said, tying it off.

  


"It is more than adequate," Aragorn said, his voice trembling slightly. "My thanks."

  


"I am not yet finished," Eomer warned. "Save your thanks for later." He then examined Aragorn’s wrist, probing gently and watching Aragorn grimace in response. "It is very swollen," he said at length. "I cannot tell if it is broken or not. To be safe, we should splint it now and check it again later."

  


The king of Gondor nodded his acceptance of this proposal and Eomer stood to search for something short but stiff that might be used as a second splint. "You said you believed this to be Khurintu’s work," Aragorn called after him. "Have you any other suspects?

  


"Have you?" Eomer challenged, returning with a tent stake.

  


"Not many," Aragorn conceded. "But Khurintu would have needed archers to stay behind in order to ignite the Orthanc Fire. Such a move is rather dangerous, as they might have been discovered. I wonder if another tribe was persuaded to take upon themselves this task."

  


"The Portu tribe?" Eomer questioned. "They have now attacked us twice."

  


"Perhaps, but I do not think it was them," Aragorn said, his voice quiet as though he were still organizing his thoughts. "The Portu tribe does not know the true identity of the Destroyer, yet in carrying out this particular attack, they would be doing things that only the _Iluh_ and their messengers should be capable of doing. As I said before, fire is very rare in the desert. Orthanc Fire would be seen as an unmistakable sign from the _Iluh_. No, the Khurintu tribe would not entrust this task to a tribe who did not already know that the Destroyer was actually Asbad."

  


"Then you believe Soltari is to blame," Eomer guessed, trying to ignore Aragorn’s hiss of pain as he firmly bound the swollen wrist.

  


"Fastahn told Arabano that he knew the Destroyer’s true identity. What if he did so to stall us? What if Soltari has been working for Khurintu all along? Thinking we had other allies, we refrained from acting until it was almost too late. The whole of the Lotessa contingent could have died here, Eomer. It is only by the good graces of fortune that some are still alive."

  


"But you were suspicious of this idea earlier," Eomer reminded Aragorn, moving back and helping the other king to his feet. "You did not believe that Soltari would abandon its position of neutrality."

  


"And I still have my doubts concerning that," Aragorn answered. "But at the moment, given the fact that Fastahn visited Dashnir ere Khurintu left, the idea of an alliance between Soltari and Khurintu seems far more credible."

  


Eomer shook his head with a rumble of frustration. "Always we are one step behind the enemy! And things that should be clear to us are hidden. What shall be our next step, Aragorn? For Lotessa’s survivors will be in no condition to fight, and if our guesses prove accurate, we shall face a war with Khurintu very soon. Our own men will not be enough! We were counting on Soltari’s information to aid us. What now?"

  


"As for that, we must counsel with Budari when he wakes," Aragorn sighed, "and hope that he has other allies we might use. Until then, we can only hope that the attack does not come soon, for you are right. Most of Lotessa is lost, and we cannot stand alone."

  


Eomer shook his head wearily and looked out across the dark desert, turning his eyes away from the flames in the Lotessa encampment and allowing them to adjust to the black night. Looking to the stars, he wondered how it was that elves found comfort in the darkness when the land lay veiled in shadow. The tiny points of light could not overcome the void of black that Eomer saw.

  


Turning away from the heavens, Eomer’s gaze wandered to the horizon in the hopes that he might find something close at hand from which to draw comfort. But instead, he found something that froze him. Gasping softly, he squinted and then issued a muttered curse "Aragorn, is not Soltari’s camp almost directly south of us?"

  


Aragorn frowned and nodded, turning his eyes in that direction. "Valar," he swore quietly.

  


Eomer could only echo the sentiment. Far down in the south, in the area what Soltari’s camp should have been, fires of destruction were burning brightly. They were identical to the fires currently burning in the ruins of Lotessa’s camp where Eomer and Aragorn stood. "They were also attacked," Eomer hissed. "Soltari was also attacked."

  


"But what does this mean?" Aragorn asked. "Why? Khesva would not be foolish enough to make Soltari a target of Khurintu’s ire. More than that, Khurintu would need them as an agricultural vassal. Why would they be attacked?"

  


"We are still one step behind our enemy," Eomer muttered darkly. "Our future grows ever more uncertain, Aragorn."

  


To this, Aragorn made no response, and Eomer watched with sinking heart as the fires roared skyward and the smoke of their burning moved to blot out the twinkling stars.

  


* * * *

  


The night was cold and dark, which suited Asbad perfectly. There was a complete absence of wind, and all the world seemed to hang in a silence that begged to be broken. Unease rippled through the sand, and the very air of the desert reminded the tribal leader of a bowstring pulled too tight. Another man might have been nervous and uncomfortable in this environment of tense waiting, but Asbad relished it. He was at his best when pressured, and now more than ever, he needed the use of every talent he possessed.

  


Something was happening that he could not quite explain, and Asbad did not appreciate unexplained things. Out of the corner of his eye, Khurintu’s ruler sneaked a glance at the staggering elf, who walked only at the insistence of two spears against his back. Precious drops of moisture beaded upon the creature’s brow, and it seemed that the latent power of the Eldar had been compromised. The elf was diminished, of that there could be no question. Yet despite his situation and despite the shadow of _ma’awnwa_ , Legolas still had an aura of dignity that was strong enough to make a mortal man pause for thought. It was this dignity and the authority in the elf’s eyes that had earned the other prisoner a second chance. Nay, not a second chance. A third chance. By all rights, the dwarf should have been killed when he first collapsed several hours ago. He was a hindrance, and at this point, keeping him alive was probably not worth the effort. It was doubtful that Gimli could last the day in his condition. But the stunted being still lived, and now the elf was being forced to carry him.

  


Asbad shook his head, wondering at himself. He was risking the lives of both captives by allowing this. Khurintu could do without the dwarf. He was meant for a demonstration, and while a live subject would be extremely effective, a corpse would also serve. The elf, on the other hand, was destined for something else, and his fate called for a living body. Asbad once again sneaked a glance at Legolas, and he grimaced slightly at what he saw. Things did not look good. The elf had fallen to his knees, and though he was struggling back to his feet, it was plain that he could not endure this for long.

  
__

Do I really need him alive? Asbad suddenly wondered. _In truth, I did not agree to deliver a living elf. It was understood within the arrangement, but the actual words were never spoken. Perhaps Garat had it right all along. Perhaps his actions just ere he died run parallel to the course we should now take. Perhaps the elf must be killed._

  


With a shake of his head, Asbad signaled to his guards that the march was to be slowed slightly. He received some very odd looks at the change in pace, but he studiously ignored them. Things were becoming…complicated. Asbad didn’t know how else to put it. He felt that he should be more confident at this point in time. The plan had gone forward almost without incident so far, and yet…why this indecision? Why this questioning? It was strange, and strange things did not sit well with Asbad. And until he knew more about the source of his unease, he would keep the prisoners alive. Both of them, if possible. It gave him more options in the future. If he should act in haste and kill one or both of them now, then he might regret the decision later.

  
__

By all the sacred powers of the Iluh _, what is happening to me?_ Asbad demanded. Even this decision to delay irreversible actions was unlike him. He had cut many a throat in the past without any hesitation whatsoever. Why this sudden reticence? Why should he balk at the thought of committing himself to killing these captives ere the appointed time of their deaths? For they were now his to do with as he pleased. He owned them, body and soul, and they bowed to his wishes. He was the master, not the other way around! His word dictated their destiny, and his hand decided their fate.

  


A snarl twisting his face, Asbad turned angrily toward the elf. He noted that Legolas seemed to be doing much better at a slower pace, but his feet were still faltering and sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck. The elf was losing too much moisture, and the chill in the night air would not be good for him.

  
__

There! It is happening again! Barely refraining from throwing his hands into the air as a gesture of frustration, Asbad swore softly to himself and turned away from his captives. He could not keep his thoughts focused long enough to form any kind of coherent strategy for dealing with this situation. He couldn’t even concentrate on the situation itself for an extended period of time.

  


He wondered if this might not be a strange case of nervousness such as young, inexperienced men might have ere their first raid or battle. But Asbad was neither young nor inexperienced. The future of Khurintu hung in the balance this night, that was true, but he had known of this night’s coming for quite some time. He had prepared for it. He had laid his plans and had made the necessary contacts. He had adjusted and adapted accordingly as circumstances changed. All was going as was intended. He should not be doubting himself. Not now. There was no room for misgivings this late in the game.

  


Once again, Asbad glanced at the elf. To his surprise, he discovered the elf returning the look, and the tribesman found himself shivering at the gray eyes that hardened into flint. Determined to meet this harsh gaze and feeling as though the elf was reading every thought that passed through his mind, Asbad held up a hand signaling for a stop.

  


The halt was unexpected, but Asbad’s guards had learned long ago to never question his orders. And so they stopped, watching their leader and wondering what was happening. For his part, Asbad ignored their stares and concentrated on his quarry. This prey should have been wounded and whimpering. It should have been docile and submissive. It should have been exhausted and pleading for relief. But instead, it was staring at him with unblinking eyes that had a power great enough to rival the sandstorms.

  


Eventually, unable to tolerate the growing sense that defeat was only seconds away, Asbad advanced on the elf and backhanded him hard across the jaw. The blow drove Legolas to his knees, and he clutched the dwarf to his chest as he struggled to keep from falling over.

  


"You will show me more respect," Asbad hissed, stepping back slightly.

  


There was a pause and then the elf looked up, his eyes filled with a defiant fire that seared Asbad’s heart and mind. "My respect must be earned," Legolas answered, his voice low and dangerous. "You have not proven yourself worthy of it."

  


Filled with rage, Asbad raised his hand to strike again, but the elf’s next words stopped him.

  


"So easy, it is, to clout a fallen captive who is burdened with the body of a companion." Legolas’s voice was as cold as the bitterest nights in the northern desert and filled with a sneering disdain that sent shivers down Asbad’s spine. "Use me as a target for your anger, then. I cannot retaliate. I cannot offer you a challenge. I can only endure your frustration. Strange is it not?" the elf continued, his gray eyes taking on a sly look. "Strange that a mere prisoner should incite so much rage. Do you truly have as much control as you think? Earlier, you asked if I knew what I faced. I believe I do now. Can you say the same? Do you know what _you_ face?"

  


Against his will, Asbad stepped back. He was shaken by this speech, which seemed to hit the very center of all his uncertainties and fears. He was losing control over his actions and allowing emotions to govern his thoughts. Glaring daggers at his rebellious prisoner and promising to make the dwarf’s death a gruesome enterprise of which the elf would receive full details, Asbad lowered his hand and gestured to the guards that watched the elf. "We move on. Any delays are to be met with punishment."

  


The surrounding men blinked, confused as to why Legolas’s words had not been met with a cruel execution at the very least. "Honored one, are you—"

  


"We continue," Asbad snapped, taking no note of who had questioned him and resuming the journey.

  


In silence, the men obediently hauled the elf to his feet and pushed him onward, prodding with spears when it seemed his pace was too slow. And ahead of his prisoners, Asbad marched in stoic silence, attempting to identify what was happening to him. _I am hearkening to the voice of prudence_ , he decided at length. _Nothing more. I wish to have room to maneuver should the situation become difficult. And as this is not my usual course, I am not behaving in my usual manner._

  


Asbad was only partially convinced that this was indeed the case, but it was the best idea he could offer. Thus the company moved forward, slowly but surely making their way across the sands while the moon traveled its starry path and eventually began drawing toward the horizon.

  
__

Prudence, Asbad told himself firmly. _These doubts are only the warnings of prudence._

 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for _ú-glîr_ , which is explained at length in Chapter 10 and 12.

__

 

  
** **

Character List   
  
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
  
Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
  
Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
  
Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
  
Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
  
Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
  
Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
  
Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
  
Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
  
Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
  
Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
  
Khesva—** Tribal head of Soltari (OC) **  
  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
  
Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
  
Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

  
** **

  
  
Tribe List   
  
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe


	30. Gamblers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Orthanc Fire" (a name I more or less made up, but it seemed fitting to me) I went with the traditional recipe for early forms of gunpowder, specifically what was used by the Ottoman Empire. For most of their sulfur and saltpeter (also known as potassium nitrate or niter) they raided the deserts of Qatar, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other places. Charcoal was another matter, though, and they had to look elsewhere for that. Thought you might want to know. And FYI, did you know that ancient peoples used to call the Dead Sea the "stinking sea" because of its huge sulfur despots? Random fact for the day.

It was the crackle of fire that first roused his dazed senses. As consciousness crept back to him, Arabano found it strange that he would even recognize such a sound, for fuel was scarce within the desert save around some of the larger hidden lakes to the east. As such, fires were quite rare and Arabano could count on one hand the number of times he’d had either the fuel or the need to light one. But nevertheless, it was definitely the sound of a fiercely burning flame that caught his ears. And as he hesitantly blinked his eyes open and found that he was face down in the sand, the memory of exactly what had happened came rushing back to him in graphic and horrific detail.

  


He remembered that Aragorn had shouted a sudden warning and that Eomer had reacted instantly as though he knew already what was to be feared. After that had come the screams. He remembered those most vividly, but they had not been what overwhelmed his ears and his eyes. There had been a sudden pressure, a blinding light, a deafening roar, and then the feeling that he was being thrown through the air. But after that, his mind drew an unnerving blank, and he could not remember anything of what had happened next. Nor did he know what was currently happening. This greatly disturbed Arabano, for he was accustomed to knowing what went on in the world about him. But his body and mind both were greatly shaken, and if someone were to tell him what was going on, he wondered if he would even comprehend their words.

  


Still, he could not lie here in ignorance. In the desert, ignorance was an open invitation for death. With this idea ringing through his thoughts, Arabano closed his eyes and managed to roll over onto his back. He spared a quick moment in which to celebrate this small but important achievement, and then he moved back to the task of learning what was going on. _And of learning why a fire should be burning_ , he added, his face twisting into a concerned frown. Mustering his energy once again, Arabano concentrated on getting his eyes back open. It was a rather difficult challenge as much of his strength had gone into turning over, but the desert breeds great persistence in the men that survive its dangers. Eventually, Arabano forced shuttered lids open and turned his head toward the crackling sound of flame. He was met by a ghastly sight.

  


Almost nothing remained of his camp. The main tent was completely gone, and all the tents that had stood next to it were burning rapidly, sending columns of smoke into the sky and hissing as the fire devoured what little now was left to it. Blackened bodies that had been flung into the air by the force of the explosion lay scattered and broken. Some who had survived the blast were beginning to stir and there were those among them that cried out in terrible pain. It was a scene that would haunt Arabano’s dreams for many years to come, and he could never look upon fire the same way again. But neither could he look away, and for long moments he stared at the hungry flames that seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

  
__

My kinsmen, he moaned within himself, feeling something in his gut twist and churn. The Lotessa tribe was a tribe of warriors. They were employed in guarding caravans from mercenaries, and they rounded out their living with a few mercenary activities of their own. In order for this system to work, trust and brotherhood were essential, and Arabano had formed strong ties and strong friendships with almost every warrior that had come to the Gathering. These men were not only bound by ancestry but by word and by deed. They lived together, struggled together, fought together, and died together. _Oh my kinsmen, what have I brought upon you?_

  


Arabano was not a particularly religious man. He had been duly schooled in Harad’s ancient lore and he did believe in the _Iluh_ , though he saw them more as guardians and watchers than as active participants in the lives of men. But many of the other legends, such as the Destroyer or the desert drake, he had taken to be but the fluff of fancy. Yet he now began to reconsider everything that had happened since he’d aided in escorting Gondor and Rohan to Haradhur. The ball of fire that had exploded upwards and momentarily blinded his eyes had been larger than anything he’d ever witnessed before. It had been greater and more powerful than anything the messengers of Sauron had been able to do when they were sent to intimidate the more independent tribes within Harad. The heat and the blinding light might have been likened to the sun at noon, while the blast’s tremendous power alone was enough for Arabano to seriously rethink the way he viewed legends of the Destroyer. Perhaps the rumors were right. Perhaps Gondor and Rohan were cursed and had brought doom to Harad.

  


But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, his practical side fought back, reminding him that he had seen Asbad’s face beneath the Destroyer’s cloak and that Aragorn and Eomer were as ordinary men. Well, perhaps ordinary was not quite the term needed, but they were certainly neither agents nor enemies of the _Iluh_. The battle between his sudden fear and his intellect raged hard within Arabano, and in his confusion, he began looking for others around him in the hopes that they might be able to tell him something.

  


He saw Aragorn and Eomer first. Both had regained their feet and both were staring at the destruction with horror and shock upon their faces, much as Arabano had done. But there was something more in their eyes than simply grief. There also seemed to be a strange look of remembrance. Arabano narrowed his eyes, struggling to gain a firmer handle on his reaction to the situation and carefully locking his emotions away for safekeeping. There would be time for sorrow later. Now was the time for questions and for answers. And as his mind eventually began to clear, Arabano became more and more convinced of his impressions. This was not the first time that Aragorn and Eomer had experienced this phenomenon of fire and light.

  


"Blood of the sand!"

  


Arabano turned his head to the side and felt a great surge of relief sweep his body as Budari slowly pushed himself up. Arabano had not seen Lotessa’s leader until now, and he was grateful that Budari seemed to be in relatively good condition. He was heavily favoring his right side, but he was alive and not only was he alive but he was on the verge of achieving a standing position.

  


"What has happened?" Budari demanded, his voice trembling slightly. It was the most emotional reaction that Arabano had ever seen his leader give, and this was cause for great alarm. _Though he certainly has good reason to fear_ , Arabano conceded, watching as Aragorn moved to help Budari. The king’s left arm was heavily splinted, and a growing stain of blood dirtied the crude bandage upon his head.

  


"Orthanc Fire," Eomer spat in answer to Budari’s question. His eyes were narrow and his left hand was clenched tightly about the hilt of his sword, seemingly oblivious to the tight wrappings of his left shoulder that were soaked with blood.

  
__

What manner of men are these? Arabano found himself wondering as he studied the two kings. Both seemed severely injured, yet both were on their feet with the fires of vengeance burning in their eyes as brightly as the fires that consumed the remainder of the Lotessa camp. _My kinsman_ , he moaned again. Sorrow and pain threatened to pound their way back to the forefront of his thoughts, but ere they could take hold, Arabano sternly pushed them back. Now was not the time. "What is this Orthanc Fire?" he asked aloud, deciding to involve himself in the conversation. It would help keep his thoughts in order as well as giving him a focus. 

  


"Do you recall the black powder that the guards found" Aragorn asked.

  


"That powder is capable of causing this?!" Arabano exclaimed, failing to conceal his skepticism.

  


"You should behold what it can do to fortresses of stone if there is a sufficient quantity present," Eomer murmured angrily, shifting closer to Arabano as though preparing to assist him to his feet.

  


"But how…" Budari trailed off and stared at the remains of the camp that had housed the leadership of his tribe.

  


"We have never discovered how the powder works," Aragorn said quietly, "but if enough of it is gathered together and fire is set to it—or a flaming arrow, as was the case here—this is the result. A wizard by the name of Saruman, who had fallen beneath the shadow of Mordor, engineered the powder and employed it against us when he sought to destroy the kingdom of Rohan."

  


"We named it Orthanc Fire after the tower where Saruman dwelt," Eomer added, his voice also soft. "We found much powder hidden there after the war as well as some of the secrets for creating more. But we lacked the resources, the desire, and the need to produce it."

  


"Harad also lacks the resources to produce it," Aragorn said quietly, releasing Budari as the leader of the Lotessa tribe took a few faltering steps toward the burning fire. "If this is indeed the work of the Khurintu tribe, then they have traded for their resources. It may be that we face a larger and more dangerous alliance."

  


Arabano was now getting to his feet—having grudgingly accepted Eomer’s unspoken offer to help him—but he froze at this latest statement and turned a sharp look upon Aragorn. "A larger alliance, honored one? Believe you that Soltari is an even greater aid than we suspected?"

  


"Nay," Eomer answered with a dark shake of his head. "We believe Soltari was not an aid at all, for their tribes burns as does Lotessa."

  


Arabano blinked and turned his eyes to the south where the Soltari tribe had established their base. A gasp from Budari informed him that he was not alone in his shock. "Who else?" Arabano demanded, watching the distant flames and fighting the nausea that clutched his stomach.

  


"We have not had time to investigate," Eomer answered wearily. "But there is also a glow to the east beyond Haradhur. Someone there might have been struck."

  


"You spoke of a larger alliance, honored ones," Budari murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. "Yet given what I see now, I cannot find it within myself to believe that another of Harad’s tribes had this knowledge and yet managed to keep it a secret. What, then, do we face? With whom has Khurintu allied?"

  


"With someone who has access to charcoal," Aragorn answered quietly. Seeing the puzzled expressions directed his way, the king of Gondor elaborated. "Charcoal. I know not what it would be in your own tongue—or if such a word would even exist—but it is a black substance that can be found after burning wood. Great quantities of wood, in fact."

  


"Harad does not have great quantities of wood," Arabano said, his brow furrowing with thought.

  


"That is why Khurintu would be forced to trade for it," Aragorn said. "But this would not be a trade with another tribe. The resources could not be found any part of Harad. This would need to come from outside."

  


"If you required wood, to whom would you look?" Eomer asked, allowing Arabano to move away from him as he struggled to regain his balance.

  


"Lebennin, perhaps," Budari murmured. "Or we might go through one of the eastern tribes, as they have contact with men who live in the jungles."

  


"Nay, word would leak of the transaction," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "To maintain secrecy, there could be no one acting as a diplomat and negotiating the deal."

  


"Umbar," Arabano said quietly, feeling as though something in his mind had just clicked. "I would go to those who sail the sea. We have traded for wood with the corsairs before, for they have great stores of it for the building of their ships. And if it was to be a secret arrangement, a member of our tribe could meet them at a fairly accessible location. They have ports up and down the entire northern and western edge of Harad where the desert meets the water. Or one could travel to their country, which sits almost due west of Haradhur."

  


"Moreover, Umbar bears no love for you or your northern kingdoms," Budari added. "If this trading partnership included a military alliance as well, they could be trusted to keep it secret."

  


Aragorn and Eomer exchanged looks, and Arabano had the uncomfortable feeling that they were sharing information he could not understand. Glancing over at Budari, he noted that his leader seemed to have the same misgivings. With a jerk of his head, Budari signaled Arabano forward.

  


"Honored ones, if you would, we must decide our next course of action," Arabano said, causing both Aragorn and Eomer to turn his direction. "But ere we do…" he shot a look back at Budari, and the man nodded his approval. "If you would, what other ingredients would Khurintu have needed to obtain for the making of this Orthanc Fire?"

  


Eomer’s jaw tightened marginally and Aragorn’s brow furrowed. "The remainder of their needs could have been found here in the desert," Aragorn answered at length. "They would not have been forced to trade for it."

  


"That is well and good, and we shall watch for shipments of this _charcoal_ in the future," Budari said, stumbling slightly over the foreign word. "But we are coming quickly to a crossroads, and we must decide our direction now. We have an alliance, my friends, but more is needed. You require our aid. You require more allies to stand against Khurintu. We offer you this, but in exchange, we would know what else is needed for the creation of Orthanc fire."

  


A thick cloud of silence descended upon the small group, and Arabano found himself tensing as though preparing to repel an attack. Yet what else could they do? Gondor and Rohan clearly had knowledge of a weapon capable of devastating all of Harad. A true alliance could not exist so unbalanced. If Aragorn and Eomer wished for aid, they would have to even the scales. For the sake of its own safety, the Lotessa tribe could not risk continuing with them without getting something valuable in return. In the desert, those who gave and did not take were fools, and fools were ultimately destroyed. Up until this point, Lotessa had done much in the way of giving, holding to the promise of future stability and possible leadership with the downfall of Khurintu. But things had become far more complicated, and this future goal was growing dim. The time for giving without immediate reward had passed. It was now time to take.

  


"Sulfur," Aragorn said after what seemed to be an eternal pause. "And saltpeter. Both can be found in your strips of volcanic rocks, such as the Sihal, and in the beds of your hidden lakes. Be advised, though, that it is important to know the proportions in which these things are mixed. Without such knowledge, the results can be disastrous."

  


Arabano smiled slightly and mentally complimented the king of Gondor. Aragorn knew Harad’s customs well. He had given Lotessa the requested information without giving away the secret to the weapon. And though it hurt the pride to be beaten at one’s own game, Arabano was a gracious loser. If Aragorn could bend the rules to his own benefit, he was a worthy ally.

  


"And now if we are finished, I suggest we gather your people and move them into the city," Aragorn continued. "I know not if other attacks are planned, but the city itself seems to be safe. I do not think Eomer and I were supposed to be here. For the moment, it behooves our enemies to refrain from openly attacking us."

  


"The injured will not be easy to transport," Arabano said quietly, looking out over the devastated camp and struggling to mask the grief that once again welled up.

  


"Our forces shall aid you," Eomer promised. "Unfortunately, we have had much experience in moving those who are wounded."

  


"The city may be safe from Khurintu and its agents, but it will not be safe from other tribes," Budari warned. "This…act…will brand you as symbols of destruction in the eyes of the Haradrim."

  


"Join us, then, and by your show of trust turn their hatred to sympathy," Aragorn said. "For why would a tribe struck down by the fires of the Destroyer seek refuge with those who brought doom upon them?"

  


"That would be the logical question to ask, but the tribes will not be reacting with logic, honored ones," Arabano pointed out. "These fires and this ruin…it has never been seen before in Harad. It is a power greater than anything the Lord Sauron ever used in the desert. For those who know not what goes forth, it is nothing short of a demonstration of power on the part of the _Iluh_. Logic and reason do not come into play when dealing with such things. We shall have panics and riots on our hands."

  


"I doubt any shall stage an attack upon us in the heat of the day, and morning is coming quickly," Eomer reasoned.

  


"Moreover, we plan to be out in the desert by the time night falls," Aragorn concluded. "None shall be given opportunity to surround us in the city."

  


"And once again we play into Khurintu’s hands," Budari sighed. "For doubtless Asbad and Dashnir wish to meet us in the desert where they are strongest. We cannot use Haradhur as a fortress for they have turned it against us. We are forced to ride forth and meet them." The tribal leader sighed and looked to Arabano. Arabano frowned darkly and turned back to watch the consuming flames. Eventually, he glanced again at his leader and nodded slightly. In truth, there was very little else that could be done. This option of relocating seemed to be the lesser of the evils they now confronted. "We will come," Budari said wearily. "And if you would lend us your aid in moving the wounded, we would welcome the assistance. But I counsel that we move your camp away from the open squares and take up residence within the buildings, preferably those with wells. The injured will need water, and if we are attacked, a cooler campsite will give our men the advantage."

  


"We will heed your counsel, then," Aragorn said. "And we shall take further counsel once all has been settled. Let us depart, my friends. We stand now upon the edge of ruin." He nodded toward burning the camp as he said this, his eyes darkening and his jaw tightening. "It would behoove us to move away."

  


* * * *

  


Just outside the protective walls of Haradhur, Fastahn stood and stared with unblinking eyes. He could not say how long he had been standing there, but if the stiffening muscles in his legs were any indication, a significant stretch of time had passed. But Fastahn did not seem to know this, and he continued to stand and stare. Twin columns of smoke obscured the stars in the west, and a third column was rising in the east from the direction of the Portu tribe. The Soltari tribe had been expecting Khurintu to act. For his part, Fastahn had been counting on it. But in all his wildest imaginings, he had never expected this. It was as though the fires of the _Iluh_ had somehow been turned over to the command of Asbad and Dashnir.

  


Around Fastahn were other men, similarly shocked and dismayed, while even more were filtering out the gates of the city to stare in wonder and awe at the destructive forces that had been unleashed. Those who had been privy to the explosions themselves were still speechless and pale, trembling as they tried to absorb the shock of what had happened. Whispers and rumors were starting to fly. Accusations and predictions of doom were running rampant. A few of the tribal leaders who had tarried in the city for private talks among themselves were vowing to leave the Gathering unless Mohart did something to appease the _Iluh_. Others were suggesting they drive the foreigners from the city while still others protested this, deeming that such revenge would only anger the _Iluh_ and show them that the Haradrim were unwilling to accept just judgements.

  


Had he been in his right mind, Fastahn would have listened and watched all of this with great interest. Not only would it benefit his tribes and his schemes, but he had always been fascinated with how paranoia and superstitions spread. But Fastahn was not in his right mind, and he could only stare in horror at the remnants of his tribe’s camp. He could see very little movement, and judging from the evidence before his eyes, survivors would be few.

  
__

I brought this upon us, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of guilt and shame sweep through them. _I thought only to prompt us to greater action. I never intended for this to happen. I never intended for—_

  


A sharp oath behind Fastahn interrupted him, and then a commanding voice was ordering men aside as Aulit, leader of the Gartabo tribe, stepped forward. His face was grim, and his hands shook slightly as if from fear. And Aulit had reason to fear, for it had been his duty to see that all went as ordered at the Gathering. Yet now it seemed as though the world was tumbling down around them all. Legends of the past had come to life before their eyes. Fires raged in the desert. Men from the north defied their greatest leaders. An elf and a dwarf had been marked for destruction and had then disappeared. Fastahn shook his head slowly, marveling at how far they had walked into their own destruction without ever knowing the extent of what threatened them. Khurintu had played its cards very well. The Haradrim were frightened and losing faith in their current leaders. All it would take to claim their loyalty would be an act of control that restored the normal order of things. After that, Khurintu’s standing would be assured in the desert as men flocked to their banner and shunned the leaders that had brought death upon them.

  


"They come!"

  


The shout drew immediate attention, and Fastahn pulled his gaze away from the ruins of his own tribe to watch as a slow procession made their way to Haradhur from the direction of the Lotessa tribe. And walking near the head of this group, supporting wounded as they came, were Aragorn and Eomer.

  


"Kill them!"

  


Fastahn didn’t know who gave the order, but the reaction was instantaneous. Swords flashed silver beneath the stars, and a great cry went up from all gathered. But the Lotessa tribe seemed to be expecting this, and those still hale closed around the northern kings while Budari and Arabano stepped toward the raised blades.

  


"Let us pass," Budari called, his voice calm and commanding despite the situation that surrounded him. "You cannot prevail without bringing death upon yourselves. Cease this foolishness and step aside!"

  


"Where are you going, Budari?" Aulit challenged, managing to shoulder aside some of the men so that he might better confront the other leader. "And why do you shelter those that have been called abominations?"

  


"By your own words, Aulit, the abominations were not specified. Your own best guess identified them as the elf and the dwarf. As you can plainly see, we do not have the elf and the dwarf with us. We bring no doom here. And now allow us to pass so that we might seek the wells in Haradhur. Our wounded need water."

  


"But you do have those that brought the elf and dwarf!" someone in the crowd shouted, and an angry murmur voiced its agreement with this statement. But Budari chose to ignore the undercurrent of noise, instead focusing his attention solely on Aulit.

  


"You have trusted my judgement in the past," Budari said, his voice lowering as though he and Aulit were the only two people in the desert. "I implore you to trust it one more time. There is much about this that you do not understand, nor am I able to explain it to you now. But for the sake of your own tribe, let us through."

  


For a moment and an eternity, no one moved. Watching with a mixture of despair and fascination, Fastahn could not help but feel suddenly isolated and excluded. His desires and his wishes had no bearing on what would happen. All that mattered was the contest of wills that now sparked between Budari and Aulit. A tense silence settled upon the people until Aulit suddenly blinked and stepped back.

  


"I cannot guarantee your safety," he finally said.

  


"I have never asked you to do so," Budari answered. "Lotessa looks to none for its own protection."

  


There was another stretch of waiting and then Aulit turned, his eyes flashing out over the people who had gathered to watch. "Let them pass into the city. The Lotessa tribe is welcome here. They, at least, have a claim to sanctuary. And some of you go forth to aid Portu and Soltari. Their wounded must also be brought within the city."

  


At first, there was no response to these words. But after a dark glare from both Aulit and Budari, men reluctantly began moving aside. A few began walking toward the remnants of Soltari’s camp, some continued to hover near the gate, and still others turned back into the city. Budari favorite Aulit with a crisp nod and then called to his men, commanding them forward.

  


For his part, Fastahn was torn. As one of the members of Soltari’s advisory council, his place was with his kinsmen and his camp. He needed to discover who had survived and what was left of their leadership. He needed to gather the Soltari tribe members who had been within the city. He needed to assist with the wounded and the dead. But he found that he could not move. He could not look at the fires without an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame taking him. It was so powerful that his stomach twisted and wrenched at the very thought of what he had done.

  
__

But I cannot now abandon what I began, he sighed wearily, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away from the desert. _I must continue on this course, or their sacrifice shall have been for naught._

  


Stifling a strangled sob, Fastahn collected himself as best he could and began walking back into the city. Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan might have been able to enter the Haradhur without coming to grief, but this temporary peace would be over all too quickly. At the moment, most of the Haradrim were still in shock. They had not recovered enough to take independent action, and so their actions had been swayed by Aulit’s words. But that would change come evening. Budari, Aragorn, and Eomer were probably well aware of this, and they were certain to have plans of escape. But escape was not what was needed. The Khurintu tribe had to be confronted, yet with their diminished forces, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan faced certain destruction were they to take that path. Fastahn grimaced and shook his head. It was time to play out his last gamble. The results of his previous gamble were the fires in the Soltari camp, but Fastahn was rapidly running out of both options and time. He only had until evening. After that, the time for action would pass, and for better or for worse, it would all be over.

  


* * * *

  


The moon was low in the west as Imrahil, Mohart, and the Swan Knights rode into the oasis around Lake Nurnein. The stars were slowly winking out as the sun’s light began to edge its way over the horizon in the east. For a moment, the interplay of light between the east and the west transformed the desert, and Lake Nurnein became a vast body of water, spanning the horizon as far as the mortal eye could see. Imrahil felt his breath catch in his throat as he was immediately reminded of not only the sea but also of his dreams from the day before. Something deep within his ordered mind clicked, and he grasped desperately at it, knowing that a clue had been found but failing to understand what that clue meant. And then the image was gone, lost in the cruel laughter of the sand as it tucked away a reminder of life. Lake Nurnein shrank back into what would be considered a small pond in Gondor, though it was one of the largest bodies of water within Harad.

  


Sighing quietly as he felt the fleeting insight slip away from him, Imrahil tried to turn his mind to other things. He had been unable to find answers to his dreams during the night’s ride and had eventually decided to let the answers come to him at their own pace. This required a great deal of patience on his part, but though he normally possessed patience in affluent abundance, he now seemed strangely short of it. Perhaps it was the growing feeling that time was running out. Perhaps it was simply all the unknowns with which he was forced to work. Perhaps it was the sense that something ill had already been set in motion. But whatever the reason, Imrahil was unusually anxious, and waiting did not sit well with him. But there was truly nothing else to be done, and so disciplining himself as firmly as he might discipline a wayward soldier, the prince began examining the many tents around Lake Nurnein.

  


Mohart had explained that Lake Nurnein was one of the boundaries that marked the northern edge of the Gartabo tribe’s territory, and running his keen eyes over the tents and people that hovered about the lake, Imrahil noted that most wore Gartabo’s colors. But there were many others also around this lake from various tribes, and Imrahil received the impression that this was not entirely normal. Nor was the feeling of tension in the air a normal phenomenon either, and glancing at Mohart who rode abreast of him, Imrahil could see the fear and suspicion flying across the tribesman’s face.

  


"Consult with your kinsmen," Imrahil said quietly, his soft voice somehow cutting across the sound of hooves and horses to attract Mohart’s attention. "Learn what you can and report back as quickly as possible. Have you a recommendation for a campsite?"

  


"Near my own tribe," Mohart answered, his black eyes pouring over the scene before them as they began to slow their horses. "There is great suspicion in the air, and I fear that some of the prejudice we faced at Lake Miyarr might be alive and well here. They will not trust you, honored one. My presence in your company should ensure us the protection of the Gartabo tribe, but it would be best if we were near their tents."

  


"It shall be as you counsel," Imrahil said. "Do you see that area over there, where the sandbar extends into the lake? Shall that be adequate?"

  


"A good choice, honored one," Mohart said. "And by your leave, I will depart now to speak with my brethren. I sense that something has happened during the night, and it may take long to sort through the rumors."

  


"Go, then," Imrahil said. "We shall see to your arrangements and belongings in your absence."

  


Mohart nodded and then spoke softly to his horse, drawing the mare away from Swan Knights and galloping toward the greatest concentration of Gartabo tents. Watching him go, Imrahil continued to slow the pace of his own company, hoping that a gentler approach might be a lesser cause for alarm than a full gallop. But even as he took these precautions, he was forced to wonder if they aided at all. The previous night, many Haradrim had looked upon the Swan Knights with apprehension and wariness. Now, there was naked fear upon their faces as well as hatred. At the approach of their horses, men moved away and averted their eyes, but not before Imrahil was able to catch horror mixed with a burning desire for vengeance. What was happening in the desert?

  


They reached the intended campsite without incident, but Imrahil could feel many hostile eyes upon him. Calling the captain of his guard over, the prince gave quiet orders that camp was to be assembled and a double watch posted. The captain nodded smartly and began to organize the men while Imrahil backed his mare away from the others and let his eyes drift out over the lake. If the situation had not been so tense, it might have been amusing. The people were trying very hard to avoid the prince’s gaze, but at the same time they sought to keep watch upon him. _Something ill has happened this night_ , Imrahil sighed. _Something that has frightened these people so much that they fear even a glance from me. But neither can they ignore my presence as some did yesterday._

  


Continuing to survey his surroundings, Imrahil’s eyes eventually chanced upon a small group of men several camps away who did not seem to be experiencing the same anxiety and tension as the others. They were restless and wary, Imrahil could sense that much from where he sat, but it was a different kind of wariness. Almost it seemed they did not care what the other Haradrim were doing. In fact…

  


Imrahil frowned, his eyes narrowing. Their clothing did not exactly match traditional desert garb. It was certainly serviceable for travel in Harad, but there was no marking of tribe or trade. At least, none that Imrahil could find from his position. And while it was not entirely unusual for lower caste members to dress plainly, the leaders almost always wore something to indicate their tribe. But those who seemed to lead this party dressed as plainly as their subordinates. Nor did they seem to have a problem meeting Imrahil’s gaze. One man stood apart from the others, supervising as they broke camp and erected tents against the sun that would soon make an appearance. And at one point, apparently bored with supervision, this man allowed his dark eyes to sweep outward where they met with Imrahil’s questioning gaze. The man started and stared, apparently surprised that he was being watched, but he did nothing else. And that alone was enough to pique the prince’s curiosity.

  
__

This is worth investigating, Imrahil decided at length. Looking over his shoulder, he noted that a few of the guards were occupied with grooming and watering the horses. Nudging his mare over, he called two of them to his side and ordered them to mount and follow. "Teril!" he called out as he prepared to leave.

  


The captain of his guard looked up, and his eyes seemed to harden slightly when he saw that Imrahil was still mounted. "My lord prince?" he asked, walking over.

  


"Teril, there is a matter that I must see to," Imrahil said quietly. "Watch our journey, and when Mohart returns, send him to us."

  


Teril’s mouth tightened and he looked ready to protest this act, but Imrahil’s stern gaze warded him off. And the captain had served Imrahil long enough to know that there was no changing his mind once he had decided upon something. With a slight sigh, Teril saluted and backed away. "I shall have men mounted and waiting should you meet with any trouble, my lord," the man said. "Do not hesitate to call for aid."

  


Imrahil smiled slightly, recognizing the tone in his captain’s voice. Even should he fail to call for assistance, Teril would send the guards if he felt the prince was in danger. Satisfied that they had come to a satisfactory arrangement, Imrahil nodded his agreement and then kicked his mare into a gallop. The two knights accompanying him were quick to follow, and together they set off to greet the men who did not seem to belong in the desert. Thinking about it further, Imrahil was forced to admit that this was a rather impulsive move for him, but something deep within his mind was telling him that this action was necessary. _Nay, not just necessary_ , he amended. _Vital. And I have come to trust my instincts far too much to ignore them now._

  


Nearing the strange camp, Imrahil watched as the man whose eyes he had met earlier began wandering out to meet him. The fact that Imrahil’s coming was not greeted with terror and suspicion only further served to cement in his mind that a clue lay here. They were almost upon the man when Imrahil raised his arm and made a fist, signaling his two knights to drop back but to remain mounted should the need arise. Imrahil himself kept his mare moving forward, stopping only a few feet from the other man.

  


" _Akhlan, sahdiini_ ," Imrahil offered as a greeting, dismounting and inclining his head slightly.

  


" _Akhlan biitak_ ," the man replied after a slight moment of hesitation. He studied Imrahil, his dark eyes betraying a strange mix of caution and impatience. Then the eyes went to the knights saddled behind Imrahil, and he seemed to make a decision of sorts. " _Hul intar an Khurintu_?"

  


Though he showed no outward reaction, Imrahil’s mind suddenly went into a whirl of swift conclusions. Within Harad, certain colors or certain patterns of embroidery upon the traditional desert robes marked the identity of different tribes. And this far north, no one should have been unfamiliar with Khurintu’s markings, as they were one of the dominant groups. Beyond that, Imrahil himself was clad in loose-fitting robes that did not come from the desert but rather from Belfalas. No native of Harad should have mistaken him for a member of the Khurintu tribe. His earlier guesses were correct. This man was not from the desert.

  


But he was also not from any of the northern realms. Before crossing Anduin, Imrahil had purposefully left behind his banner and any symbols that would identify him as being from Dol Amroth, hoping that his company would be mistaken as travelers from Belfalas and thus left alone. The temptation to strike against one of Aragorn’s strongest allies—an ally not escorted by men from leading tribes across Haradhur—would be too great a temptation for many to resist. Thus, Imrahil bore nothing marking him as the prince that he was. But even without distinguishing symbols, any man of rank from the northern lands would have at least recognized him as being nobility from Dol Amroth. Thus, this man could not be from the north. Beyond that, his complexion was too dark, and his voice…there was a strange accent in his Haradric. Imrahil knew he had heard this accent before, but at the moment he could not place it. Studying the man as other suspicions began to rise, Imrahil took a gamble and decided to play along.

  


" _Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar_?"

  


"If we are to speak, let us do so in a language with which we are both familiar," the man growled, abruptly switching to Westron and further startling Imrahil. "I trust you are here for the charcoal?"

  
__

Charcoal? By the Valar, what does the Khurintu tribe want with charcoal? "How much did you bring?" Imrahil asked, opting for a neutral answer.

  


"As much as I brought the last time," the man said curtly. "Now, have you the sulfur and the saltpeter?"

  


Something clicked in Imrahil’s mind, and his brow furrowed as he searched for a link between these three items. There was something familiar about them, and yet… "They were to have arrived here earlier, but they have apparently met with delay," Imrahil eventually answered.

  


"We grow weary of waiting for them," the man growled, his eyes darkening. "If you truly wish for our participation in the assault, you must give us the promised materials. And where is the prisoner you wrote of? I see no elf, yet your most recent message clearly promised us one of the elves. We will not act without first testing our weapons."

  


"As I said before, there seems to have been a delay," Imrahil said, hoping to stall while his mind frantically processed what had just been said. Vital information was landing in his lap, but it was coming too fast and he did not have a context in which to place it. He knew nothing of the situation at the Gathering, nor did he have any idea as to what Aragorn and Eomer were currently doing. But judging from this man’s statements, they were in trouble. Quite a bit of trouble.

  


"Perhaps we have not made ourselves clear," the man growled. "We will not join you in attacking Minas Tirith without assurances that you have control in the desert and that we can neutralize the elven threat in Ithilien."

  


"Might I know your name, sir?" Imrahil asked as sudden revelation hit him like a battering ram with mithril plating.

  


"Aeri-eluwn. And yours, tribesman?"

  
__

Umbar! Imrahil nearly cursed aloud. He should have recognized the accent, particularly after the switch into Westron, but he had been too busy trying to track all the information that was suddenly being offered. Still, the name made it absolutely clear. These men were from Umbar. Dol Amroth had dealt with the Corsairs far too often to fail at recognizing their names. But what was Umbar doing so deep in the desert?

  


Realizing that the man was still waiting for a response, Imrahil quickly cast about for a name that he might give in return, but before he could do so, another man—who seemed just as uncomfortable in the desert as the first—approached them. " _Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit_ …" The second man trailed off and stared at Imrahil, his eyes showing signs of uncertainty. When the uncertainty abruptly changed to startled recognition, Imrahil knew the game was up.

  


Acting before any could raise a cry of alarm, Imrahil seized the second man, drew his sword, and laid it to the man’s neck. Aeri-eluwn started forward, but he was stopped by a warning look from the prince of Dol Amroth. "The alliance is over," Imrahil hissed quietly, tightening his grip on his hostage as the man began to squirm. "You will depart with your goods and never again set foot in the desert. Gondor has been privy to your communications. The Khurintu tribe is being dealt with. If you value your necks, corsairs, then you will leave well enough alone lest we turn our eyes to you as well."

  


"Imrahil! Dol Amroth!" the captive man hissed to his companion before Imrahil could stop him. At these words, Aeri-eluwn froze and stared at the prince, rage and fury swiftly overtaking his face.

  


"I advise you to hold your tongue," Imrahil warned. The sound of hooves behind the prince informed him that the two guards accompanying him had joined the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their spears trained on Aeri-eluwn. "Tell your men to back down," Imrahil commanded as the rest of the Umbar party realized what was happening and began to advance. "There are many more of us in the desert. Spill blood now and you will never lay your eyes upon the sea again."

  


" _Twaqf_ ," Aeri-eluwn ordered reluctantly. More hoof beats were sounding, and Imrahil realized that Teril had sent knights after his prince. Which was probably for the best, as Imrahil was outnumbered without them.

  


"A wise decision, my friend," Imrahil said, continuing to hold his sword firmly at the other man’s throat. "And now I will offer you a choice. Make me an oath to take your men and leave for your own country the moment the sun sets come evening. Refuse this and we will kill you where you stand, beginning with this one." The prince jerked his sword just enough again his hostage’s throat to draw blood, and he heard the ring of steel behind him as other swords were bared.

  


The man named Aeri-eluwn hesitated, conviction and rage fighting a fierce battle within his dark eyes, and then he nodded slowly. "We will depart at sunset."

  


"For your own lands," Imrahil reminded him, taking no chances. "Swear it!"

  


"Upon my father’s house, I swear we will depart for our own lands at sunset," Aeri-eluwn spat.

  


Imrahil lowered his sword and pushed his prisoner forward, forcing the other man to catch him. "Then I hold you to your word," the prince said, sheathing his sword and reaching for the reins of his mare. "And may I offer a parting word of advice? Do not act against us during the day. If you do, then there will be none left to return to Umbar with tidings of your deeds." He held the other’s eyes for a moment after saying this, letting him know that this was not an empty threat, and then he turned away. Mounting quickly, he backed his mare up and signaled to his men. As silent ghosts, they turned away from the Umbar camp and followed their prince back toward their own camp.

  


"My lord?" Teril questioned, guiding his horse next to Imrahil’s. At the prince’s gesture to speak, he continued. "Sire, why did we not kill them?"

  


"There is something foul at work here," Imrahil answered, "but until I can discover what, we will take no hasty action. I will not risk inviting war with Umbar when we do not understand all that such a war would entail."

  


"They will not submit easily to your demands, my lord prince," Teril cautioned.

  


"And that is why the double watch shall be maintained throughout the day," Imrahil replied. "Fortunately, the men of Umbar value their word as they value their own lives. We can at least trust them to depart at sunset as they swore to do."

  


"Honored one!"

  


Imrahil looked up as Mohart galloped toward them, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Have you discovered aught of what has caused such unease here?" Imrahil asked when the man neared them.

  


"The rumors are scattered and fragmented at best, honored one," Mohart answered. "None seem to truly know what is happening. But at the moment, I am more interested to learn what you have been doing. With whom were you speaking? Those men are not of the desert."

  


"Nay, they are not," Imrahil murmured. "They are of Umbar."

  


"Umbar?" Mohart repeated incredulously.

  


"It seems they have a trade arrangement with Khurintu. And an alliance, as well." Imrahil turned a sharp look on the delegate from the Gartabo tribe, his eyes accusing. "Did you know of this?"

  


Mohart drew himself up indignantly as they rode back into Dol Amroth’s camp. "I knew nothing of such an alliance, honored one. And I find it difficult to believe that such a thing could go unnoticed, especially if they are trafficking in weaponry."

  


"They are not," Imrahil answered, signaling his men to halt. Dismounting, he handed the reins to a nearby guard and drew Mohart aside, barking a dismissal to the other men. "What use would the Khurintu tribe have for charcoal?" he asked the moment the others withdrew.

  


"Charcoal?" Mohart echoed, his eyes flickering with confusion.

  


"A black substance that can be made from the burning of wood," Imrahil explained. "What use would Khurintu have for it?"

  


"I know nothing of such things," Mohart said. "What uses would any have for it?"

  


"It can be used as a writing implement," Imrahil said slowly. "But aside from that…" He trailed off as he was once again struck by the familiarity of all this. "Come, tell me what you have discovered," he said, deciding to change the topic for now. "What news from your kinsmen?"

  


"The reports I have received make no sense, honored one," Mohart answered with a helpless shrug. "There are rumors that the _Iluh_ have sent a destroying fire upon the Gathering and that judgement hangs above us all. Yet I can make no clear sense of their words. They are confused and fearful. And they say that it is the northern companies that have brought this doom upon us."

  


"A destroying fire?" Imrahil asked, feeling as though he was sitting atop one of the keys to unraveling this mystery. "Can you be more specific?"

  


"Nay, for they could not be. They had not witnessed it themselves but rather have received their reports through Warra’s hawks. They say a great noise shook Haradhur, and when men turned to look, fire erupted from the sand. Several camps were at the centers of these fires, but I could not confirm which camps were affected. There are too many rumors for that."

  


"Orthanc Fire," Imrahil suddenly murmured, his mind flashing back to a conversation with Eomer when he and Lothíriel had visited Dol Amroth. Somehow the subject of Helm’s Deep had come up, and Eomer had mentioned that the ingredients for a blasting fire had been translated from one of Saruman’s scrolls. He could not remember all the specifics—and Eomer had been rather vague, as well—but he seemed to recall that charcoal had been upon the list of requirements for producing this destructive fire.

  


"Honored one?" Mohart questioned.

  


"If my guess is not far afield, I believe Khurintu has learned the secret of producing a weapon that was used once in the north," Imrahil said slowly. "When struck with flame, there is a substance that will erupt into fire. By Elbereth, I should have pressed those men for greater details!"

  


"It seemed to me that you were holding one hostage," Mohart commented, his voice carefully neutral but with an undercurrent of curiosity.

  


"My face is familiar to some of the corsairs, for Dol Amroth has battled them in the past. One recognized me and it was necessary to take action quickly." Imrahil shook his head, running a hand through dark hair. "Yet even so, I believe I can now hazard a greater guess as to what goes forth here. Khurintu and Umbar have been working together in the hopes of overthrowing Gondor. Khurintu was to seize control of Harad. I suspect that this process involves the disposal of Aragorn and Eomer. It is what I would do should I desire the overthrow of the north. With their kings gone, Gondor and Rohan are thrown into chaos. My realm is too far removed to act swiftly enough if Khurintu and Umbar press the attack. Belfalas and Ithilien are then the only obstacles, and Belfalas will be hit too quickly to react. Faramir will take command and the elves of Ithilien will join him, but those men said something about a weapon that they might use to neutralize the elven threat. Which leaves the men of Gondor and Northern Ithilien to defend the realm against a swift attack from both Umbar and Harad."

  


"Yet how would Khurintu seize control of Harad, honored one?" Mohart challenged. "Most tribes have no wish to rise against the north."

  


"Have you lost your sight, Mohart?" Imrahil demanded. "Look about this lake. Look at what is happening to your people. Rumors are flying swift and strong, and it seems that Khurintu is creating some great calamity in Haradhur. And did you not speak of a figure from your legends? The Destroyer, I believe? When suspicion, doubt, and legends mix, can you guarantee that common sense will prevail? Nay, you cannot. And we see only parts of what is happening, for we are removed from the center of this. Who knows what goes forth in Haradhur where the leaders of this desert sit in council!"

  


Mohart was silent for a time, his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed. "Your words have the ring of truth to them, honored one," he said at length. "And perhaps you were right several nights ago when you spoke of our being too late. It seems that events have been set in motion that cannot be easily stopped."

  


"Perhaps, but perhaps you also had it aright," Imrahil mused, his glance straying southward in the direction of Haradhur. "Events are still happening in Harad, and I have seen victory snatched from the jaws of defeat before. It takes but one slip to turn a revolution back on itself. Mayhap we can cause that one slip."

  


"What, then, is your counsel?"

  
__

What, indeed? Imrahil took a few steps away from Mohart and looked toward the lake. Aeri-eluwn had asked about an elven prisoner. As far as Imrahil knew, there was only one elf in Harad at the moment, and it seemed that he was expected to arrive at Lake Nurnein in the near future. Should they wait for Legolas and hope that by freeing Southern Ithilien’s lord they might put a stop to some of the plans and learn more of what was happening at Haradhur? _Nay, for these plans have already been altered. The men of Umbar shall depart at sunset, and the Khurintu tribe shall arrive with none here to greet them. My apologies, Legolas, but I fear I shall have to leave you to your own devices and trust that you shall be well. The threat to the realm is greater. My place is beside my king._ "We ride for Haradhur tomorrow night, and we do so with such speed that it will make the horses stumble," Imrahil answered firmly, his mind made up.

  


"It may be that we are already too late," Mohart cautioned. "Or it may be that we will arrive only to witness the fall of your kings. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait for events to play out and then seek to thwart them."

  


"Nay, I will wait no longer," Imrahil answered, clutching the hilt of his sword as his eyes glittered with the fires of a warrior. "If we do arrive to witness the fall of the kings, I view it as my duty and my pleasure to die with them. But Khurintu will not win without cost. If they are victorious, then we will make them pay for every step with their own blood."

 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Akhlan, sahdiini—Greetings, my friend. (Haradric)

  
__

Akhlan biitak—Greetings (the response). (Haradric)

  
__

Hul intar an Khurintu? _—_ Are you from Khurintu? (Haradric)

  
__

Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar? _—_ Yes, I am from Khurintu. And you? (Haradric)

  
__

Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit...—Aeri-eluwn, we are prepared to…(A local dialect from Umbar)

  
__

Twaqf—Back (local Umbar dialect)

 

  


 

  
__

Author’s Notes: For the "Orthanc Fire" (a name I more or less made up, but it seemed fitting to me) I went with the traditional recipe for early forms of gunpowder, specifically what was used by the Ottoman Empire. For most of their sulfur and saltpeter (also known as potassium nitrate or niter) they raided the deserts of Qatar, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other places. Charcoal was another matter, though, and they had to look elsewhere for that. Thought you might want to know. And FYI, did you know that ancient peoples used to call the Dead Sea the "stinking sea" because of its huge sulfur despots? Random fact for the day.

  


Anyway, almost all of the cards are now on the table and the counter-plots are starting in earnest. So if you’re still confused with what’s happening, separate out what Khurintu and Umbar planned together and what everyone else is planning as a response. Most (not all, but most) of the former is now known. The latter is still being revealed. 

  
** **

Character List 

Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) ****

**Aragorn** —King of Gondor ****

**Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) ****

**Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) ****

**Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) ****

**Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) ****

**Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) ****

**Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) ****

**Eomer** —King of Rohan ****

**Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) ****

**Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) ****

**Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond ****

**Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) ****

**Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights ****

**Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) ****

**Khesva—** Tribal head of Soltari (OC) ****

**Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood ****

**Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) ****

**Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) ****

**Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC)  
 ****

  
  
Tribe List   
  
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe


	31. Moments of Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

A sharp, ripping pain in his thigh as well as an incessant pounding throughout his head informed Gimli that he was once again returning to the conscious world. The dwarf was less then enthused. The fact that his first sensations were those of pain was a good indication that all was not well, and at the moment, Gimli was quiet content to remain blissfully ignorant of his surroundings. But in spite of these wishes, something was drawing him from his strange and shifting dreams, and though the dwarf fought this pull valiantly, it continued to drag him into the waking world. In the end, he decided that struggling against it was futile and reluctantly settled back for the ride.

  


The next sensation he experienced was almost as bad as the pain. His mind became aware of a slight rocking motion about the same time that his stomach did, and even as he tried to learn the cause of this movement, his gut decided to twist and knot with rolling waves of nausea. His stomach was empty, which was something of a relief to the dwarf, but that didn’t stop it from violently protesting movement of any kind. Deciding that he should probably do something about that, Gimli began attempting to open his eyes. Perhaps he could hold reality steady for a moment if he gave it a good glare.

  


Unfortunately, opening his eyes proved to be a daunting task because he couldn’t seem to remember how to do it. Gimli’s mind was not functioning correctly—perhaps because of the enormous headache that plagued him—and he slipped from one thought to the next with almost no direction or control. Physical movement was next to impossible. Vocalization was also forbidden. It seemed that the only thing he was capable of doing was quietly submitting to whatever was going on and analyzing the things his befuddled senses were able to pick up. Naturally, this was a great toll on Gimli’s pride. Dwarves did not stand idle while the world went by around them. They were the architects and builders of Arda. They had to know what was happening in their realms, and they had to participate in it if circumstances permitted. Very few outsiders knew it, but among their own kind, dwarves had a unique penchant for gossip and nosiness. Thus, Gimli’s nature demanded that he open his eyes and learn of his situation. But at the same time, his weary mind and aching body begged him to fade away again and ignore the outside world. It was a conflict of self that the dwarf was in no condition to handle, and it was further complicated by Gimli’s next discovery.

  


He was being carried.

  


Pride and honor roared to life, nearly eclipsing the pain in his leg and head as they screamed for self-sufficiency and independence. But his body rejoiced in the fact that someone else was seeing to his needs because this meant that the dwarf was justified in resting a bit longer. But as Gimli struggled between these two opposing forces and tried to find a logical solution, something clicked in his brain that started moving him even closer toward total consciousness.

  


He was not safe here.

  


He did not know why he was not safe here and he did not know where _here_ was, but he did know that he was in danger. Rising above the clamor of pride and pain, warrior instincts began to dominate, and it was in these instincts that Gimli put his trust. He knew better than to question feelings of danger or unease, for such feelings had saved his life many times in the past. And so ignoring both honor and broken body, Gimli tried to discover more of the peril he sensed around him so that he would better know how to deal with it when it chose to attack.

  


By this point in time, his brain was beginning to work better, and muscle control was coming back. His thoughts, though still hampered by a perpetual headache, were clearing, and memory was also returning. _I should be dead_ , Gimli suddenly realized as hazy facts filtered through his mind. _I collapsed again. I should not be alive. Our captors should have killed me. How is it that…Legolas?_

  


It had to be the elf. It was the only possible explanation. The elf was the reason that Gimli was still alive. And it was undoubtedly the elf who now carried him. Legolas had promised to protect Gimli with his own life should it come to that, and it appeared that the gamble had paid off. Rather than killing the dwarf, the guards had allowed Legolas to carry him. But…how long had the elf been doing this? Gimli could now sense that he was cradled against a chest that heaved for air, and if he didn’t know better, the dwarf would have said that he smelled perspiration. But elves did not sweat. Or if they did, they did so in a way that was not noticeable to others. Yet Gimli could not deny the evidence that his clearing senses were relaying. Legolas was breathing hard, the elven arms that supported the dwarf were trembling, and there was a definite smell of sweat in the air.

  
__

Water! Gimli suddenly thought with horror. _Legolas is losing water. I must get down. He cannot lose water, for who knows when our captors shall give us drink!_

  


But getting down was a rather improbable goal at the moment since Gimli still couldn’t open his eyes. But he was gaining the ability to move his arms and legs, and he put that ability into play, struggling weakly against Legolas’s restrictive hold. It didn’t help that the dwarf’s arms were still bound behind his back, but his movements at least attracted the elf’s attention. He could sense Legolas’s eyes coming to rest upon him, the power of the elven gaze transcending even the murky barriers that kept Gimli from opening his own eyes. Surely Legolas would now see that the dwarf was waking and would subsequently put him down.

  


But his hopes were dashed when he heard a weary sigh that carried heavy overtones of frustration and despair. And while Gimli pondered on what this sigh might mean, Legolas shifted his arms, clutching the dwarf even tighter against the heaving chest that continued to gasp for air. "Peace, my friend," the elf soothed quietly, his voice coming across as rather breathless. "Hush and lie still. We have not far to go."

  


To the dwarf’s ears, it sounded as though Legolas was repeating something he had been saying often, for it had a very practiced feel to it. _Then he has been carrying me for quite a while_ , Gimli decided, thrusting down a surge of guilt. _Well, we shall certainly change that!_ And with this vow, the dwarf renewed his efforts to open his eyes and prove his consciousness so that Legolas would set him down upon his own two feet.

  


A small and extremely cynical voice in the back of the dwarf’s head informed him that even if Legolas did put him down—which was unlikely—he would probably be unable to walk. His right leg felt as though it had swollen to the size of a hobbit’s stomach after a large meal, and though Legolas had positioned his arms carefully so as not to disturb the wound, it was still quite painful. But Gimli felt that the risk must be taken. Aside from his dwarven honor—which was still stinging sharply—and his warrior instincts—which were still clamoring about danger—Legolas seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

  


Once again, the dwarf began to struggle, and as before, his efforts proved completely ineffective. Legolas shifted him yet again, turning him so that his face was pressed into the elf’s shoulder and his bound arms dangled in the air away from the elf’s chest where the weak struggles would not disrupt Legolas’s hold on his friend. "Hush, Gimli. Hush. You are safe," the elf whispered, again sounding as though this was something of a litany.

  


Had Gimli been able to scream with frustration, he would have done so. Nothing he did seemed to register with Legolas. The elf spoke to him as though soothing one who was delirious. _And I am certainly not delirious_ , the dwarf growled to himself, trying to muster enough strength for speech. If he could communicate, then perhaps the elf would believe that he was awake. Putting all his energy into this new endeavor, Gimli’s efforts were eventually rewarded with a quiet groan. It was not much, but it was progress.

  


"You are safe, _elvellon_ ," Legolas murmured, apparently having heard the noise. "I shall see to that. Peace, now. Rest."

  
__

He must think me daft, Gimli decided. _Peace? Rest? I shall do no such thing. Not until he sees to his own welfare, stubborn elf._ His thoughts were becoming even clearer now, and his ears were beginning to pick up muted conversation around him. His stomach was not nearly as fitful as it had been minutes ago, though it was still protesting the rocking motion caused by Legolas’s stride. Bolstered by these improvements and feeling even more confident in his ability to make coherent contact, Gimli once again pooled his resources and tried to speak. This time, he managed to get out a name. "Legolas?"

  


There was a slight break in stride, and the dwarf felt Legolas’s eyes upon him once more. "Gimli? Are you awake?"

  


Summoning as much energy as his broken body was capable of mustering, Gimli managed to lift his heavy eyelids and turn his head upwards. His vision was blurred, but at least his eyes were open. "Awake," he hissed, only now noticing just how parched his throat was.

  


"Thank Elbereth," Legolas whispered. "I had nearly given up hope."

  


"Legolas, I—

  


"Hush," the elf interrupted quickly, his words no louder than a sigh. "Speak more softly. They will hear you if you raise your voice."

  


"Doesn’t matter. Put me down."

  


There was something that sounded like a stifled laugh from Legolas, though if it was a laugh, it was hauntingly devoid of mirth. "Gimli, were I to set you down, they would kill us both. You are completely unable to support your own weight."

  


"But—"

  


"Nay, my friend. Cease your talk. I am not so far gone that I cannot carry you yet a little longer."

  


"So you say now," the dwarf grumbled, wondering when his throat had become so dry. He debated about continuing with his insistence that he be allowed to walk on his own, but he knew well that Legolas was right. He would topple over the moment his feet touched the ground. Beyond that, the elf’s statement about their captors killing both of them were it to be attempted had been made with chilling certainty. It was probably best to drop the subject for now in favor of gaining more information. Clearly much had been happening.

  


With effort, Gimli turned his head around, attempting to look at something other than Legolas’s shoulder. Seeing his struggles, Legolas shifted his arms and Gimli soon found his hazy eyes were now staring up at blurred stars. "Where…" Gimli trailed off and licked his lips, deciding that Legolas wasn’t the only one who had lost a significant amount of water during the night. The dwarf felt he could drain the Anduin. "Where are we?" he asked quietly.

  


"Harad."

  


If Gimli had been strong enough to do so, he would have given the elf a solid clout for such an answer. "I know that," he rasped.

  


"I was uncertain if you did."

  


There was enough honesty in that response to give Gimli pause for thought. _How far gone was I_? he wondered. Aloud, he asked, "You did not think that I knew we were in Harad?"

  


"I was uncertain," Legolas repeated.

  


Unable to find a good response to that, the dwarf eventually returned to his original line of questioning. "Where in Harad are we?"

  


"Somewhere to the north and the east of Haradhur. More than that I cannot say."

  


Gimli sighed and closed his eyes. "We do not know much, do we?"

  


"Nay. I fear that we do not." Legolas fell silent for a moment, and then he began speaking again, his voice even softer than before. "There was a line of volcanic rock to the south not long ago. We skirted it for some time, but now I can no longer see it. It was not unlike the Sihal."

  


"There are probably many areas of volcanic rock here," Gimli murmured.

  


"It is my understanding that one could find water there. Do I err in this?"

  


"There could be water there," Gimli confirmed hoarsely, wondering what Legolas had in mind. "But you would need to find a cave with access to an aquifer."

  


There was another stretch of silence in response to this, and Gimli frowned, trying to get his eyes to focus. He could not see Legolas’s face clearly enough to read the subtle emotions that would indicate what the elf was thinking. The dwarf had become very good at discerning what went on behind his friend’s expressionless façade, but he could only do so if he could see the elf’s face with complete clarity of vision.

  


"Legolas?" he eventually prompted when his eyes refused to cooperate.

  


"They intend to separate us," Legolas murmured. "Earlier this evening, I listened to their speech. We are meeting others at sunrise. They come with horses for faster travel, and Dashnir is expected to join us as well. At that time, we will be separated, but for what purpose, I do not know."

  


Gimli digested that for a moment, thinking through the ramifications. "You may have a chance to escape after we are separated."

  


"I do not intend to let them separate us."

  


The elf’s forceful tone immediately put Gimli on alert, and he frowned. "You have something in mind."

  


"You will not be allowed to live once I am gone. They will kill you and so ease the burden of carrying you, for they would not have to see to your comfort or welfare. I will not allow that. We will escape ere it can happen."

  


"What is your plan?" Gimli whispered, wondering how any escape attempt could be made given his current condition.

  


"Take no thought for it," the elf answered, his voice now so low that it was almost impossible to make out the words. "I only ask that you stay conscious enough to grip the mane of a horse."

  


Gimli still didn’t have a good view of the elf’s face, but judging from his words, the plan for escape had not been thoroughly planned out. Turning away from Legolas, the dwarf directed his attention to those around them. His sight was still quite blurred, but he managed to find many shadows and silhouettes. They were completely surrounded. What was this talk of holding a horse’s mane? Legolas would never be able to get close to a horse, especially if he was carting about a wounded companion. The elf was too weak. "You will not make it," Gimli murmured.

  


"Hush."

  


"You will not escape if you take me with you."

  


"I will not go if it means leaving you behind."

  


"This is folly," Gimli hissed.

  


"Your mind is wearied. Rest."

  


"Why should two die when one could live?"

  


"Because two can also live. Now hush. We are drawing attention."

  


Gimli’s first inclination was to blatantly ignore the request to be quiet, but the conversation had taken far more out of him than he’d anticipated. Exhaustion claimed him once again, and his mind could no longer keep up with the turns of phrase necessary for enduring a debate with Legolas. Deciding that it would be best to resume this argument at a later time, Gimli squelched the qualms of his pride and fell silent, closing his eyes as he tried to regain his strength.

  


A moment or two later, he felt an elven gaze lock on to his face, and he surmised that Legolas was startled by his acquiescence. "Gimli?"

  


"Still here," the dwarf mumbled.

  


The arms around Gimli shifted a bit, and he was forced to bite back a cry of pain as his wounded thigh pressed against Legolas’s hip. The elf’s stride slowed and a hand came down upon Gimli’s brow. "Your fever is growing."

  


"I know," Gimli whispered. "I can feel it." Now that he wasn’t worried about proving his consciousness or arguing with Legolas, the dwarf had noticed that he was feeling flashes of heat as well as enduring periodic chills. It was disturbingly similar to a bout of pneumonia that he’d endured when he was still living in the Blue Mountains, except that his lungs did not ache and he was not coughing up mucus. At least not yet, but who knew what would happen to him next. Fortune was a notoriously fickle mistress, and she did not seem to be favoring him of late.

  


Gimli felt himself shifted, and then the pressure on his leg was relieved as Legolas once again supported him with two arms. "I have no way to treat you here," the elf murmured. "I have neither medicines nor herbs."

  


"I know," Gimli said again, wondering why Legolas had asked him to be still but then continued to speak to him.

  


"I am sorry, _elvellon_."

  


Ah, so that was it. Legolas was feeling helpless. The dwarf grimaced and wondered if there was anything he could do about that. Legolas did not deal well with feelings of helplessness or vulnerability. Gimli supposed it came from a long history of serving as a prince and a captain in one of Arda’s darkest forests. One could not afford to feel helpless there, for such a feeling meant almost certain death. One had to maintain complete control over both surroundings and forces. At the moment, Legolas had no control whatsoever. He had no ability to change his own fate, and he could certainly not alter anyone else’s fate. _But I am as helpless as he_ , Gimli sighed. _I have no words of comfort to speak and no counsel to give._

  


The dwarf was still mulling over how to best aid his friend—and still finding no answers—when Legolas stiffened. It was not enough to be visibly perceivable to any of their guards, but pressed against the elf as he was, Gimli immediately sensed it. Something had changed. Then their forward motion ceased. Legolas had come to a stop. And as Gimli began to pay more attention to his surroundings, he noticed that the noise level had increased. And not only had it increased, but new sounds had been added. He could hear hooves. Horses. Horses had come.

  


"Legolas?"

  


"Hush," the elf commanded, a note of authority entering his voice. "Be as still as you can."

  


Gimli, however, had other ideas. If he allowed Legolas to go through with this foolish plan, neither one would ever leave Harad alive. Alone, the elf had a slim chance of surviving, and at the moment, it was absolutely imperative that at least one of them escape and tell Aragorn of what had transpired. And since Legolas had more of an idea as to what was happening than Gimli did, he should be the one to go. Even noble elven sentiments had to give way before logic. "Legolas, I—"

  


But as powerful as logic was, there was yet a stronger force in the desert that night, and it was brute strength. Shifting Gimli’s weak form, Legolas pushed the dwarf’s face into his tunic and held it there, quite literally smothering any further complaints.

  


Barely able to breathe, Gimli immediately began fighting the elf, which only caused Legolas to hold him tighter. Strangely enough, though, this was actually more of a help than a hindrance for the dwarf. His growing need for oxygen triggered a surge of panic that lent him additional strength. He did not know where this strength came from and he suspected it would cost him dearly in the future, but he was so desperate for air that he threw caution to the Wargs and began struggling in earnest. It was not long before his attempts to free himself garnered a response, but it was not exactly the response that Gimli was hoping for. An elven face leaned close to his, and he managed to catch a glint of flashing gray eyes filled with such frustration and anger that a dragon might have stepped back. "If you do not cease and lie quiet, I will take no care to keep you awake and so attempt an escape while you are unconscious."

  


Gimli had known Legolas long enough to be able to determine when the elf was serious and when he was jesting. At the moment, he was completely serious. The dwarf was not exactly graceful in accepting this defeat, but he did still his struggles slightly, though he could not quite prevent himself from attempting to get his beard out of his face. Aside from making it difficult to breathe, it was tickling his nose. Fortunately, Legolas did not seem to mind these smaller struggles, and loosened his hold on Gimli’s head. But he did not allow the dwarf to move away from his shoulder. He was apparently taking no chances.

  


Eventually deciding that trying to move his beard was a rather futile endeavor, Gimli sighed and forced himself to relax so as to regain his lost energy. Mahal, but he was tired! The fever was sapping what strength he had left, and he longed to slide back into darkness where he had been ignorant of reality. Beyond that, he seemed to have developed a pulse in his thigh. He could feel his heart pounding away beneath the torn muscle, and he suspected that it had begun bleeding again. _Though why I should be concerned with such things is beyond me_ , he sighed wearily to himself. _It seems I can do nothing for myself. Even my thoughts are beginning to slip away again._

  


In an attempt to ground himself, Gimli began listening to the talk going on around him. But this also proved to be a rather pointless undertaking since all the talk was in Haradric. The dwarf knew almost nothing about the language, but it was doubtful that even a rudimentary knowledge might have aided him. His head was spinning, and it was becoming difficult to keep his concentration on one thing. But he was determined in his efforts, despite the pounding hammers in his skull, and eventually he did catch a few words that he recognized. Haradhur was one. Nurnein was another. Nurnein was the lake located a night’s ride north of Haradhur. Yet this told him nothing. He had no context in which to place these things, and the rest of the talk was gibberish insofar as he was concerned.

  


Bereft of any type of anchor and still finding it difficult to obtain enough air, Gimli was on the verge of loosing his hold on consciousness when Legolas suddenly moved, bringing the dwarf’s head up so that whispered words might be passed unnoticed. "Have you steel and flint with you?"

  


Gimli blinked, confused. What in Arda did Legolas want with steel and flint? Even the most creative warrior would be hard-pressed to use such tools as an effective weapon when contending with spears, arrows, and swords.

  


"Gimli?!" Legolas hissed, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

  


"Left side," the dwarf answered, shaken by the amount of effort now required to form words. "In the lining of my tunic is a pocket. Should be there."

  


"The Haradrim did not take them?"

  


"Nay," Gimli muttered. "No reason to, I suppose."

  


"Then perhaps fortune still favors us," Legolas whispered.

  


The dwarf gave a mental frown, wondering if his friend was finally caving under the pressure of captivity and fear. Gimli had ample imagination, but he could not quite see how their current situation might in any way be construed as a favor from the hand of fortune. He began working up the energy to voice his concerns about the elf’s state of mind, but before he could do so, a low, gentle hum caught his attention.

  


"Legolas?" he questioned, wishing he had enough energy to pull back and study his friend.

  


The elf did not respond but continued to hum softly, his quiet song strangely compelling. There were moments when the notes did not seem to carry as well as they should have, and Gimli shivered to think of the effects that _ú-glîr_ was having upon the archer if Legolas could not keep a consistent tune for so simple a melody. But even with _ú-glîr_ shadowing him, the elf was still very gifted and his song was soothing. Some of Gimli’s pain drifted away as he listened, and the confusion in his mind died down, fading to a mumble in the background that could be ignored with effort.

  


This song also seemed to affect those standing around them. Still listening to the speech of his captors, Gimli noticed that conversations were diminishing and a silence was falling as Legolas continued. _But what do you plan to do with this_? the dwarf silently demanded. _This song is calming, yes, but surely you do not think to lull these warriors to sleep. They are not so easily fooled as that. What is this madness, my friend? Why do you draw their attention to yourself?_

  


Yet despite his questions—and questions were now breeding as rapidly as Orcs in the shadows—Gimli could not bring himself to interrupt the elf. It seemed that none could. All other talk had now completely ceased, and only Legolas’s voice broke the night’s stillness. The hum was slowly growing into a wordless, voiced melody, chillingly beautiful as its volume grew. Gimli had heard his friend sing before, and it was always a cherished moment for the dwarf—though he would sooner start breeding his own horses than admit his love of elven music to anyone—but this song…this song was different. There was something else hidden beneath the notes that Gimli could sense but not quite grasp. Words were being issued, but no words were spoken. A command was being given, yet the dwarf could not fathom to whom this command was addressed. Nor could he understand it, but he suddenly felt a pull of obedience surging through his breast. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it caused him to take a mental step backwards and reevaluate this being he considered a well-known friend.

  


Louder and louder Legolas’s voice grew, and men began to shift nervously as the tone of the song began to change. Gimli felt himself released from something, though what that something was, he could not say. But the shock of being freed was so sudden that he had a very real sensation of falling. Then Legolas broke forth into words, his voice ringing strong and clear with only a slight tremor to betray that he had been weakened by the ordeals of the night. Gimli nearly jumped in surprise, but he was not the only startled one. In answer to these words, the clear whinnies of horses suddenly trumpeted in the waning darkness. And the previous calm abruptly became a bedlam of chaos.

  


Hooves pounded against the sand, and men cried in alarm as the powerful steeds broke free of their handlers. A rush of wind swept over Gimli and he sensed horses moving all around them, driving the men away. Arrows whined and skipped, coming so close that Gimli felt one graze his cheek. But then Legolas was running, staying close to the horses even as his arms shook and his chest gasped for air under the strain of their flight. With an audible groan that indicated just how weary he was, the elf’s muscles bunched and Gimli suddenly found himself flying through the air, coming down heavily on the back of one of the horses. A hard thump indicated Legolas’s arrival behind him as the elf landed awkwardly onto the leather saddle that he would never use himself. Not a moment later, Legolas had placed Gimli’s hands on the horse’s mane, forcing them to clench the coarse hair while whispering instructions to hold fast. Then the elf reached into the dwarf’s tunic and seized the flint and steel for which he had asked not long before. Greatly puzzled, Gimli started to question these actions, but before he could do so, the horse beneath them screamed in pain and stumbled violently. Legolas’s arms snapped around Gimli’s waist in a desperate attempt to keep them both mounted, and the elf cried aloud to the steed, urging it to ignore the pain and continue onward.

  


For his part, Gimli was now immersed in a world of excruciating pain. His head pounded violently from sudden jolt, and wild colors were now creating a nauseous menagerie of images in his mind. He dimly heard Legolas saying something about an arrow in the horse’s hindquarters, but he could not be certain of that. He only knew that if he had his axe to hand, he would probably use it to cut off his own head. At least then it would stop throbbing. His thigh slapped wildly against the side of the horse, and he felt blood trickle down his leg even as his pain rose to new heights.

  


The sharp sound of metal striking against stone somehow caught Gimli’s attention despite the growing confusion and agony. It was a note of familiarity in a sea of chaos, and he clung to it as though it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor. Then Legolas’s weight shifted and jerked to one side as though he was throwing something. Steel struck flint again, and the turning motion was repeated, this time to the other side. Through all of this, the horse continued running, but its gait was awkward and faulty. _Like Legolas_ , Gimli thought, his mind beginning to wander as it tried to escape the grasp of pain. _He still presses forward, but he is not entirely whole. He cannot endure this for much longer._

  


His musings seemed to take a prophetic turn, for no later had he concluded this thought than Legolas lurched forward, pressing hard against the dwarf and grunting in shock and pain. Accompanying this came another scream from the horse, and it faltered yet again, wheeling drunkenly to one side and tipping precariously as hooves slipped and skittered across the sand.

  


"Legolas?!" Gimli managed to rasp as he used the rest of his strength to clutch wildly at the horse’s mane.

  


"Brace yourself," Legolas answered through gritted teeth, still leaning heavily upon the dwarf. The elf’s hands had now fastened themselves upon the horse’s mane, and he gripped so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

  


Frustrated by this answer but in too much agony to repeat the question, Gimli swallowed a moan of pain and tried to turn his head so that he could see Legolas. But before he could do so, a sudden blast of light and a wave of heat hit him. The ground dropped away and a deafening roar sounded in the desert. Their horse careened forward madly, miraculously managing to keep its feet as it was pressed onward by a rolling wind that blistered skin and rattled bones. Legolas was shouting encouragement to the horse once more, but Gimli was perilously close to losing consciousness. He could feel his hands relaxing and he was beginning to slide to the right as his head nodded. He was falling…

  


"Gimli!" Legolas’s arms were once again around the dwarf, and he pulled him back onto the saddle with a strength so slight that it frightened Gimli enough to drag him back to the conscious world. The elf sounded even weaker than before, and Gimli remembered that he still did not know what had happened to the prince.

  


"What was it?" he croaked, working to get his eyes back open. He could not remember closing them, but then, he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything at the moment. His head felt as though a herd of oliphaunts had decided to invade and stampede.

  


"Orthanc Fire," Legolas whispered. "I recognized the powder in bags attached to some of the saddles. I do not think we need worry about immediate pursuit. Our captors shall be occupied with other things."

  


Gimli hissed as he continued in his efforts to open his eyes. That was not what he had meant in asking the question. But fate conspired against him when he sought more information, for as he was about to repeat the question, their horse stumbled again, emitting a keening bray that echoed throughout the desert.

  


" _Noro lim, mellon bain_ ," Legolas cried out. " _Le bell. Noro lim._ "

  


Finally managing to open his eyes—but unable to drive back the pain that was crippling his thoughts—Gimli found himself looking down at an arrow lodged deeply in the side of the horse. Blood flowed heavily from the wound, but the horse ran on, obedient to the commands of the elf. "Legolas, the arrow—"

  


"A flesh wound, Gimli. It will not affect me greatly."

  


"You?" the dwarf questioned, brow furrowing in confusion. "What…you were struck with an arrow?"

  


There was a pause and then Legolas’s hand fell upon Gimli’s brow. "My friend, are you—"

  


"You were shot!"

  


"Yes, Gimli. I thought—"

  


"Where?"

  


"The shoulder," Legolas answered, his voice filled with both confusion and concern. "Gimli, how do you—"

  


"When?"

  


"Before the Orthanc Fire was triggered."

  


"Are you—"

  


"Peace, Gimli," Legolas interrupted firmly, his hand leaving the dwarf’s brow. "I am well. The bolt struck high. I will draw the arrow the moment we reach safety. This injury will not interfere. I promise you that."

  


Gimli nodded slightly, grimacing as this sent his headache raging again. At least now he knew what had happened to Legolas. But their mount… "Legolas, what of the horse? It was shot."

  


There was another pause before the elf answered. "Yes, she was shot."

  


"Are you not going to tend to the wound?" Gimli demanded, struggling to master his swirling thoughts.

  


"If we stop to pull the arrow, the blood loss will be too great," Legolas said, sorrow weighing heavy upon his words. "I will be unable to staunch the wound and the mare will die when we force her onward. But if I leave the arrow where it is, she can carry us further before she collapses."

  


"You are killing her," Gimli murmured, blinking with this realization.

  


"Yes, I am," the elf replied quietly.

  


"But—"

  


"Gimli, we must find shelter and water. The sun rises soon. The horse is our only chance at survival. We must use her."

  


The dwarf lifted his eyes to the horizon, which now displayed the telltale signs of the coming dawn. His bleary eyes looked long and hard, but nowhere could he see any sign of something that might protect them during the scorching heat of the day. His addled mind began to comprehend the utter hopelessness of it all, and he shook his head in disbelief. He stopped the movement immediately when his headache flared up at him, but he could not stop the feelings that now rose from his heart. There was no chance for them. They would be unable to find a place to hide from the deadly rays of the sun. They would be unable to find water to replenish what they had lost during the night. They would die in the desert after all.

  


"You should have left me. You would have moved faster."

  


"Such actions are in the past," Legolas answered. "Besides, as I told you before, I could not leave you in their hands. They did not intend to keep you alive. And I would not be able to live with your death, Gimli. It would destroy me."

  


"You would survive," Gimli mumbled, hissing as the horse stumbled again. His thigh was slapping against the mare’s side and the pain building within it was muddying his thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate. "You would learn to go on."

  


"Hush," the elf ordered gently. "Let us speak no more of this. Rest and conserve your strength. The infection still holds you, and you must find energy enough to fight it."

  


"But—"

  


"Sleep!"

  


For the second time that night, Gimli was startled into obedience by the stern note of command in his companion’s voice. The dwarf could remember only a handful of instances in which Legolas had ever turned unbridled royal authority upon his friends, yet within the space of but a few hours, he had done so twice. It was a sign of just how upset the elf was. Under normal conditions, Legolas covered his frustration and despair with a mask of cynicism, but when cynicism could no longer shield him, he sometimes resorted to hiding behind his identity as a prince. The fact that Legolas was currently doing this and had already done so earlier in the evening worried Gimli greatly. But he said nothing, knowing that any words of his would be brushed aside and that he would once again be told to lie quiet and still. At the moment, it was probably best to humor Legolas in this. Their chances for survival were slim, in any case. What harm could it do to cater to the elf’s last wishes? And so Gimli closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, turning his safety over to Legolas’s care with rare abandonment of dwarven honor and pride.

  


They rode on in silence, and Gimli drifted to and fro in his thoughts. His thigh was pounding, but he now seemed to be removed from the pain and he did not truly feel it. The same could be said of his aching head. It did not matter anymore. Precious little did. He could sense that he was uncomfortably warm, and he suspected that his fever was again on the rise. But such problems were no longer his to deal with. He had no care for them, and the outside world began to fade into a vague oblivion as Gimli started to fall into darkness.

  


A sudden scream of pain and a hard jolt managed to drag Gimli back. He felt himself flying through the air, and then he met the ground with an abrupt shock that nearly destroyed any sense left in his mind. Opening his eyes, he turned his head just enough to watch as the horse they had ridden breathed her last. A long exhale of air and a shudder marked the coming of death, and expressive eyes dimmed to vacant orbs that stared at Gimli as though foretelling that he would be next.

  


Movement to the side attracted his attention, and the dwarf looked toward Legolas, who was groaning and clutching his shoulder as he struggled to rise. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his left shoulder and a stain of blood coated his tunic. Worry filled Gimli, but he had no means to express his concern. Strength had left him, and he could only lie quietly and watch in helplessness. Then, from beyond Legolas, a blinding light shot outwards from the horizon. Its piercing rays slammed into Gimli’s head, and he felt himself reeling. Darkness closed back in, and his muddled mind, unable to handle anything more, plummeted into unconsciousness, mercifully shutting down before the dwarf could realize what had happened.

  


The sun had risen.

 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Elvellon—Elf-friend

  
__

Noro lim, mellon bain. Le bell. Noro lim—Ride on, fair friend. You are strong. Ride on.


	32. Beyond Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

Having lived most of his life in the Wilds—and therefore having lived most of his life in constant danger—Aragorn knew well just how powerful the feelings of relief and perceived safety could be. He also knew that these feelings were extremely dangerous, for they tended to lull one into a sense of security when sometimes such security did not exist. As a result, Aragorn had learned to guard against relief and to view feelings of safety with a certain amount of suspicion. Still, it was hard to maintain his wariness when his head was pounding in time to the beat of his heart and his broken arm seemed to have developed a pulse of its own. Shock and exhaustion were also setting in, and as he reached the Gondorrim and Rohirrim camp, Aragorn almost allowed relief to wash over his caution.

  


Almost.

  


But Ranger instincts came into play before relief could gain the upper hand, and though weariness threatened to drag him to the ground, Aragorn swept his eyes over the encampment, making note of anything that seemed out of place or unusual. Guards were rushing to greet them, their faces startled and fearful as their eyes came to rest upon the king of Gondor. Their reaction came as no great surprise, for if Eomer, Budari, and Arabano were any examples, he probably looked as though he had just fought a Nazgûl and lost. _Still, Eomer could have given me a warning of some kind_ , he mused with a glance toward the king of Rohan, who was rubbing his head as though it pained him.

  


"My king!"

  


The sharp cry caused Aragorn to turn a little too suddenly, and the onslaught of pain in his head almost took him to the ground. He recovered quickly but not quickly enough for the Lotessa tribesman he was supporting, who cried out weakly at the abrupt movement. Cursing his own weakness, Aragorn waved one of his guards over and passed off his wounded charge, making a mental note to personally examine the man later in lieu of a proper apology.

  


"Sire, are you—"

  


"I am well, Imhran," Aragorn interrupted his captain, looking about for Eomer. He quickly spied the king of Rohan speaking with his own men, and as though sensing his gaze, Eomer looked up and nodded, signaling that he would join Aragorn shortly.

  


"Honored one, we must move your camp into the safety of the buildings, for the sake of the wounded if for no other reason," a voice murmured behind him.

  


"We will do so at the earliest possibility, Budari," Aragorn answered, glancing over his shoulder at the leader of Lotessa. "But there are things that must be seen to first. If you wish to facilitate the process, choose a building that would be defensible and settle your men within it. We will join you shortly."

  


"Do not tarry, for the sun is rising and the day grows warmer," Budari warned before calling to his men in his own tongue and moving away.

  


"Sire, what—"

  


"Explanations will be forthcoming," Aragorn interrupted, turning his attention back to the captain of his guard. "But first I would hear your report. Have the scouts that were sent to observe the camps about Haradhur returned?"

  


"All from Gondor are present," Imhran answered, the slight frustration in his voice indicating that he still had many questions. "I cannot answer for the Rohirrim, though."

  


"We will let the Rohirrim answer for themselves, then," Aragorn said. "What say the scouts, or have you had time enough to listen to them?"

  


"All returned when the fires awoke in the desert," Imhran answered, "and since then, I have done nothing but question them. The mood of the city is foul, but at the moment, their anger is directed outward rather than inward. They have not yet sought to attack the camp, but it is only a matter of time before they do, sire."

  


"I am aware of the danger," Aragorn said. "What have you learned from the reports of the scouts? What connections to Khurintu were found?"

  


"I fear they found nothing, sire," Imhran said. "But we were given only half the night in which to search, for we returned quickly upon seeing the fire. Sire, the Rohirrim are saying that these blasts are similar to the fire used against them in the siege of Helm’s Deep."

  


"Orthanc Fire," Aragorn confirmed quietly. "It was used to destroy Lotessa’s camp and the camp of the Soltari tribe, as well. How many fires did you witness?"

  


"Two in the west and a third in the east, sire. Our best guesses place the location as the camp of Portu," Imhran said. "But sire, how can this be? It was my understanding that Orthanc Fire was a device of Saruman."

  


"It would seem we underestimated the resources of our enemies," Aragorn murmured. He was silent for a moment and then shook himself, turning a keen gaze upon Imhran. "The Lotessa tribe has requested sanctuary within our camp, and I have agreed. Their men are to be given every courtesy and their wounded are to be cared for. Additionally, we shall be breaking camp and moving into the buildings so as to take advantage of available water and cooler temperatures. With the addition of Lotessa’s hale men, such a location should be defensible. Have some of your company see to moving camp. Enlist the Rohirrim’s aid when it comes to moving the horses and finding suitable arrangements for them. Have others assist with the survivors of the Lotessa tribe. All those that remain shall stand guard."

  


"I shall see it done, my king," Imhran promised, saluting quickly. "Have you any other commands?"

  


"King Elessar, Arhelm and the riders we sent into the desert have not returned."

  


Aragorn blinked and Imhran jerked slightly, both surprised by Eomer’s arrival. Holding up a hand to indicate that Imhran should stay for a moment, Aragorn looked toward the other king "You have received no word of them?"

  


"None. Moreover, some of the Rohirrim were upon the eastern side of the city awaiting their return and witnessed Orthanc Fire rising from Portu’s encampment. They returned to report this, but two still linger upon the outskirts."

  


"They are not safe there," Aragorn murmured. "We were not assaulted in the streets because we walked with Lotessa. They have not that protection, nor will the riders that have yet to return from the desert." Aragorn cursed and shook his head, ignoring the sudden escalation in headache that this caused. "Imhran, ere you carry out your orders, find Budari and bid him meet with me. Then see to the men."

  


Eomer watched silently as Imhran bowed in response to these commands and left before speaking again. "Aragorn, it could be that Arhelm and his men have found Legolas and Gimli. If they did, they would have waited until an opportunity arose for escape."

  


Aragorn frowned. "I thought they were under orders to observe and send back word only."

  


"They were under orders to observe, send back word, and act if there was a possibility that they might free our friends."

  


Aragorn sighed and shook his head. He remembered well his own years among the Rohirrim when he’d served beneath Thengel, and he knew that even the slightest chance of success would be reason enough to act. The Rohirrim had a talent for snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, but sometimes their leaps of faith into the arms of fate earned them a rather rude awakening. Bold actions were not always successful, and in the desert, failure was usually rewarded with death. _I should have sent my own men, save that we had need of Rohan’s swift horses._ "Would they wait so long as to risk being caught by the sun?" Aragorn asked, hoping that the Rohirrim had learned prudence in the years since Thengel, though given some of their actions in the War of the Ring, he rather doubted it.

  


Eomer frowned, his lips pursing with thought. "Arhelm would wait as long as possible and perhaps even a little longer. He will his press his men and his horses as hard as they can be pressed. And he would certainly attack if given the opportunity to free Legolas and Gimli, which would further delay them."

  


"In other words, Arhelm and his men may or may not be injured, they may or may not be coming back with the rising of the sun, and they may or may not be bringing with them two beings that most of Haradhur considers abominations." Aragorn grimaced and gave Eomer a look of exasperation. "How is it that your people have survived for so long?"

  


"Fortune favors the bold," came the somewhat indignant answer.

  


"And the foolish, too, or so I am told," Aragorn sighed as he absently rubbed the splint upon his left arm, his mind churning. "There is also the chance that Arhelm has found nothing, correct?"

  


"That would account for a delay as well," Eomer said with a nod. "If he and his men lost Dashnir’s tribe or if naught of note happened, Arhelm would wait in the desert in the hopes that something might present itself. And he would put off his return until the last possible moment."

  


"So we have no idea what to expect when Arhelm comes back, and we have no idea when to expect him," Aragorn concluded grimly.

  


"Nay, but I thought to inform you that he had not returned so that we might take the necessary precautions. He and his men will need a guard of some sort so they might pass through the city, and if they do have Legolas and Gimli with them, they will need even more protection."

  


"Honored ones, your captain said you wished to speak with me."

  
__

How is it that everyone is moving so silently today!? Aragorn demanded even as he firmly stifled his surprise at Budari’s presence. He decided that injuries were probably dulling his senses, which would be a normal symptom of shock but it could hardly be afforded at a time like this. "We do," he said aloud, turning slightly so that Budari and Eomer were both included in the conversation. "Some of our riders have yet to return from the desert, and we would beg a favor of your tribesmen that are still hale."

  


"You wish your men to have an escort to the camp," Budari guessed. "A wise precaution, honored ones. I shall see what men can be spared. At which of the city gates should they wait?"

  


"The eastern gate," Eomer answered. "They will come in with the sun directly behind them."

  


"Then I shall make arrangements to have my men meet them. How many do you think will be needful?"

  


"Your judgement would serve better than our own," Aragorn admitted reluctantly. "I have been in the desert before, but I have never seen a city so filled with suspicion and turmoil. Would a few of your warriors be enough to prevent an outcry, or would more be needed?"

  


"It would depend upon your own men," Budari said, fixing Aragorn with a shrewd gaze. "Would I be correct in assuming that these riders were sent after your missing elf and dwarf?"

  


"What of it?" Eomer challenged.

  


"The elf and dwarf will not easily be allowed into the city. Such a task might well prove to be impossible. But if only men and horses seek entry, I suspect that only a few men should be needed as escort."

  


Aragorn hesitated and looked toward Eomer, but the king of Rohan seemed to be at a loss. Going back over all he knew of the Khurintu tribe as well as all that had happened, Aragorn eventually sighed. "They will not have Legolas and Gimli with them. It will be only the men."

  


Budari watched Aragorn closely for a moment as though sensing his uncertainty, but then he nodded and stepped back. "Then I bid you farewell for the present, honored ones, while I send men forth to meet your returning riders. But I counsel that we meet again soon, for there is much to discuss. Khurintu will return soon to make their claim upon the desert. We must be ready."

  


"And we shall be," Aragorn answered. "My thanks for the escort you are providing."

  


"The need for thanks shall be determined when they have accomplished their mission," Budari said, inclining his head and then moving away.

  


"You think Arhelm has not found Legolas and Gimli?" Eomer asked quietly, a slight note of challenge entering his voice.

  


"I think it extremely unlikely, and in light of the odds we now face, it would be best to keep more men here. Khurintu has planned their moves too well to afford losing prisoners now. We are several steps behind their game and until we can begin to break free of the pattern they are forcing us to follow, we will be unable to deal them any serious blows. The risk of attack upon this camp is greater than the possibility that Arhelm has succeeded in liberating our friends." Aragorn sighed and looked at the king of Rohan. "I have played this game of odds many times before. It is never pleasant, but it is necessary. My apologies if I caused offense."

  


Eomer was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "I felt that our abilities as Rohirrim have been slighted. My apologies in return. I see now that such was not your intent."

  


"If nothing else, this trip has given us much to think about," Aragorn offered.

  


"Much indeed," Eomer agreed quietly. "Some things, though, are more pertinent than others. What can we make of the fact that Khurintu targeted the Soltari and Portu tribes with Orthanc Fire? And what of our suspicions concerning Umbar? Beyond that, I am also curious as to how Khurintu came by the knowledge of how to create Orthanc Fire."

  


"As am I," Aragorn said. "Unfortunately, I doubt we will learn such a thing unless we can convince Asbad or Dashnir to inform us. The chances of that happening are rather slim."

  


"Yet the knowledge could be important," Eomer pointed out. "If Khurintu knows the secret to Orthanc fire, then it is possible that Umbar also knows. And such knowledge would be dangerous in their hands. Somehow, this information has been loosed, and until we know how, it is possible that a number of groups can now create Orthanc Fire."

  


"We cannot deal with this problem now, Eomer," Aragorn said. "You are right. Something or someone has managed to slip information past the guard of the Ents and we may very well face an even greater threat than what is currently posed by Khurintu. Yet Khurintu’s threat is dangerous enough, and we must concentrate on that before moving on to other things."

  


"Meaning Khurintu’s next step," Eomer said.

  


"And for that, I fear we shall once again have to rely upon the expertise of the Haradrim," Aragorn sighed. "It is not so much _what_ Khurintu will do but rather _when_. Timing is the problem. And we must learn why Soltari and Portu were attacked. I suspect the Portu tribe simply knew too much and was eliminated in order to hide information, but Soltari is another matter. I do not see how Khurintu could view them as a threat, yet Soltari obviously posed a danger of some kind. And if Khurintu feared them enough to destroy them, we must learn whatever secrets they possessed."

  


"How could Soltari threaten Khurintu, then?" Eomer murmured. "We suspect that Khurintu will use Legolas and Gimli as proof of their power over abominations. They will be seen as fulfilling the will of the _Iluh_. And they shall rally the desert against us. They have destroyed our allies in Lotessa, making us too weak to meet them in the desert. Whatever confrontation they plan, it will happen near the city where all can witness it. How would Soltari pose a threat to these plans?"

  


"Soltari knew that Asbad was the Destroyer," Aragorn said. "But they would have never shared this knowledge with the Khurintu tribe. Khesva is too cautious for that. The Khurintu tribe should have had no reason for attacking them."

  


"Unless someone betrayed the Soltari tribe," Eomer said, his eyes flashing as though remembering more personal betrayals within the state of Rohan. "Perhaps someone who visited the Khurintu camp during the day."

  


"Someone like Fastahn," Aragorn murmured, his brow furrowing. "As Soltari’s agent in the city, he would have had both means and opportunity to betray his tribe. But we lack a motive."

  


"It seems that treachery runs thick in this land," Eomer said. "Perhaps the motive is as simple as power."

  


"This matter must undergo further investigation, and it must be done soon," Aragorn said. Categorizing Fastahn as a suspect felt right, but there were still too many unanswered questions for him to view this latest theory as anything more than speculation. "We shall have to once again ask Budari to send forth his own men, for we cannot risk our own guards in the city now. And doubtless Khurintu intended this to be so."

  


"Then let us seek him out and request that information be gathered," Eomer said. "And I would also see you moved inside. The sun is growing warm, and I still wish to examine your wrist. We do not know yet if it is broken or simply sprained."

  


Aragorn sighed and then nodded, surrendering to the other’s request for the moment. "You could bear further examination yourself," he said as Eomer led the way toward one of the buildings.

  


"I doubt it not, but you are privileged to be first," the king of Rohan answered firmly.

  


"And how came you by this conclusion?" Aragorn challenged.

  


Eomer smiled, though his smile was sadly lacking in real mirth. "Because I have heard many times that Gondor is first in all things. I see no reason for that to change now."

  


In spite of himself, Aragorn chuckled quietly at this and shook his head. "My thanks, Eomer," he said quietly, appreciating the other’s forced attempt at levity.

  


"You are welcome, Aragorn," Eomer answered. "And now come. I meant what I said earlier. The sun is growing warm, and it is best to withdraw from its glare."

  


* * * *

  


As the first rays of the morning sun brushed across his skin in cruel parody of a caress, Legolas shivered and attempted to rise. His shoulder throbbed fiercely and his limbs shook from exhaustion, but somehow, despite these things, Legolas managed to get to his knees. It was a rather noteworthy accomplishment that had succeeded in stealing his breath, which did not bode well for future actions. Pausing to collect his scattered thoughts as well as to restore a rather shaky sense of balance, Legolas looked around and winced at what he saw.

  


Gimli lay sprawled in the sand several feet away, unmoving and seemingly unconscious. He lived, for Legolas could see the rise and fall of his chest. But his breathing seemed shallow and difficult, and his skin was a sickly gray in color. The horse they had stolen lay slightly behind the elf, her black eyes vacant and staring. Judging from her position, Legolas suspected that the sudden fall had broken her neck. The arrow had brought her down. Their own momentum had done the rest. The three of them were surrounded by a sea of sand. Far away to the south was a shadow that might indicate the presence of darker rocks, but it was difficult to judge distance in this flat terrain, particularly since Legolas was unused to working with limited sight. The sun was also beginning to play tricks, and the air shimmered slightly, further obscuring vision.

  


With a grimace and a sense that time was flowing swiftly now, Legolas started to rise to his feet, but he stopped as pain ripped down the left side of his back. Realizing that he would have to deal with his own injury before seeing to anything else, Legolas sank back to his knees and cursed softly. He had not lied to the dwarf when he had said the injury was merely a flesh wound, but it was still a great inconvenience and one that he could not afford right now. Steeling himself, Legolas reached back with his right arm, groping about until he discovered the arrow’s shaft. The head had struck his shoulder blade and was not buried deeply, but pulling the bolt would hurt, nonetheless. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Legolas loosed a long breath of air as his hand closed around the smooth shaft. Not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he jerked his arm back, ripping the arrow free and crying out weakly in spite of his efforts to stay silent. For a moment, the world spun wildly around him, and Legolas braced himself, hissing sharply and willing his mind to stay focused. He could not lose consciousness now or he would never wake up. The sun would see to that. His hands clenching into fists and the shaft in his right hand snapping beneath the strain of his fight, Legolas willed himself away from the tempting void in the back of his mind. And after a few painful moments, the darkness receded, and Legolas was able to open his eyes again.

  


Mustering what little strength remained to him, the elf took a deep breath and staggered to his feet. He first moved to the dead mare, kneeling and allowing one hand to brush against her neck. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart, and he bowed his head, murmuring quiet words of thanks to the horse that had given her live for the two friends. Time was of the essence and he could feel the sun’s rays growing in strength, but Legolas could not quite bring himself to leave without at least giving the mare this shallow acknowledgement of respect for her deeds. She had carried them as far as she was able, and for her sacrifice, Legolas was grateful.

  


Lingering for a moment more, Legolas eventually shuddered and moved back, his eyes searching for saddlebags or anything that might prove useful. But fortune seemed to be working against him; the two water skins he found had split open, their contents emptied onto the sand. And that was all. He found no food and no weapons. With a quiet murmur of despair, Legolas rubbed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He did not know how he was going to save either himself or the dwarf from this situation, but somehow, he would. He had driven the mare to her death for Gimli’s sake, and he was not going to allow her sacrifice to be a vain one. Once again summoning his waning strength, Legolas regained his feet. Turning his back on the horse, he pushed all feelings of guilt and sorrow from his mind, much as he had when he’d commanded her to ride on regardless of her injury. They were not yet out of danger, and they had to move on quickly.

  


Making his way to Gimli’s side, Legolas knelt and ran gentle hands over the dwarf’s head, checking for injuries and ignoring the pull in his shoulder as his own wound protested the movements. "Gimli?" he called, cringing at the raging temperature he felt beneath the skin. The dwarf’s fever was even higher, but Legolas had no means to bring it down to safer levels. "Gimli?" he tried again.

  


A slight moan was his only response. Trying to ignore the fear that slowly wormed its way into his heart, Legolas ran his hands down Gimli’s arms and over his chest, searching for breaks that might have been caused by the fall from the horse. Every now and then he would call the dwarf’s name, but if he received any answer at all, it was in the form of a quiet groan. This was certainly not a comfort to the elf, and by the time Legolas’s hands reached Gimli’s wounded leg, his panic had fanned itself into a raging fire. This blaze became an inferno when he discovered that the stab wound on Gimli’s thigh had split open and was bleeding profusely. The thought occurred to him that perhaps this would drain the infection, but Gimli’s pallor coupled with the moisture the dwarf had lost during the night immediately came to mind. Gimli could not lose any more fluids.

  


Wasting no time, Legolas shed his tunic and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his left shoulder. Quickly and efficiently, he ripped away the sleeves, and armed now with what would have to pass as bandages, he bent over Gimli’s injured leg. One sleeve he wrapped tightly about the wound itself, grimacing at the slight whimper of pain that his actions caused as well as the fact that he was unable to offer comfort to his friend. The other sleeve he wrapped higher upon the dwarf’s thigh, drawing it gently against a pressure point that Aragorn had once shown him so as to slow the flow of blood to the dwarf’s leg. He made this second bandage rather loose, for he knew that too much pressure could stop circulation altogether and possibly kill the leg. But he could think of no other way to stave the bleeding. It was an act of desperation carried out with a touch of common sense, and Legolas prayed that it would work.

  


Having finished this, the elf looked toward the eastern horizon—noting with despair the progress of the sun—and then turned back to the dwarf. His quick examination had revealed that the dwarf could be moved. Indeed, moving Gimli was the only way to keep them both alive. Neither would survive the day unsheltered from the sun. Both were too weak, and both had lost too much water. Yet the act of moving itself…that was another matter.

  


Legolas knew his limits, and he knew he was fast approaching them. He was weak, dizzy, exhausted, and injured. He had carried Gimli for much of the night, and he had endured the previous day in the confines of scalding tent. He was shadowed by _ú-glîr_ and he was not completely certain that he could find shelter in this wasteland. There was a shadow to the south that _might_ be the volcanic rocks he had seen earlier, but he could not be certain of this. Moreover, his vision as beginning to tunnel, and he knew that this would only grow worse as the day wore on. He needed water, rest, and medical attention. _None of which I am likely to find by sitting here_ , Legolas told himself sharply, attempting to redirect his wayward thoughts.

  


With a firm shake of his head, the elf slid his arms beneath Gimli and lifted. His left shoulder cried out sharply in protest, and Legolas grimaced before freezing, a new thought entering his mind. Somehow managing to get to his feet, he began shifting Gimli so that his injured shoulder was actually taking more of the dwarf’s weight. _Concentrate on the pain_ , he told himself, recalling an incident that had happened many years ago in Mirkwood. A large party of archers led by Legolas’s older brother Taerorn had been beset by Orcs. Though the elves defeated the attackers, their victory was not without cost. They had been far to the south—within sight of Dol Guldur, actually—and many were wounded. Legolas had been one of the fortunate elves on that trip, for he had received no injury. Taerorn, however, had been severely hurt, and there were times on the long journey home when they had feared they would lose him. But when it seemed that Taerorn could go no further, he had done something that shocked them all. He had taken his knife, and before any could stop him, he had cut open the palm of his left hand, opening and closing the hand so that blood flowed freely. It had become a throbbing, infected wound that required several weeks of treatment after reaching home, but Taerorn would claim afterwards that this self-inflicted wound had saved his life. Legolas had never truly understood this—at the time, they had all assumed Taerorn to be delirious with fever—but now, the youngest son of Thranduil had a very different perspective. He felt that he knew exactly why Taerorn had done what he did, for he was about to do something very similar. He was going to turn all of his focus onto the pain, ignoring the other complaints of his body as he put one foot ahead of the other.

  


Feeling his shoulder wound tear slightly at the strain he was placing upon it, Legolas smiled grimly and started walking in what he hoped was the correct direction. If Taerorn was right, then his body would continue to move long after his mind was convinced that it could not go any further. And remembering his brother’s condition and their endless journey home from the fastness of southern Mirkwood, Legolas was willing to believe this. He had to believe. If he did not believe, there was no hope, and if there was no hope, he should give up now, lie down, and accept the coming of death.

  


It was ironic, really. When he began this escape attempt, he’d harbored no hope whatsoever. His idea of success had been a quick death for both himself and the dwarf. He did not understand the Haradric language, but as an elf—even though shadowed—he could pick up nuances contained within speech that were hidden from other beings. And through these hints and clues, he had come to understand that he was to be separated from Gimli. Legolas’s instincts warned that separation meant execution for the dwarf, and so he had decided then that if it was Gimli’s fate to die, he would join his friend in that fate. And perhaps in this way he could foil some of Khurintu’s plans. They had been keeping them both alive for a reason. Death might set things back for Asbad and Dashnir. He had reflected once that Gimli might not approve of such a plan, but Gimli had been in no condition to approve or disapprove of anything.

  


And then Legolas had seen the black powder. A bag of it on one of the horses had been torn, and he had seen the streaks of powder upon the animal’s fine coat. This had sparked a series of fragmented ideas in the elf’s mind, and the beginnings of an escape plan that did not end in death had begun to form. It was still a plan with limited potential, but it certainly offered a greater opportunity than his initial plan. The chance of victory was even greater when coupled with the fact that the shadow of _ú-glîr_ was spreading over the men and dulling their senses. Even Asbad had seemed troubled, something Legolas had decided to test. And so the elf had acted, recklessly running one horse to the ground and killing two other horses outright because upon their backs they carried the powder that would produce Orthanc Fire. Legolas did not know how many others he had killed, nor did he care. All that mattered now was reaching safety.

  


Moisture upon his face suddenly caught Legolas’s attention, and his mind snapped back to reality. He was sweating, and then sun was rising even higher in the sky. Stopping for breath and readjusting his hold on Gimli, the elf glanced down at his feet and blinked to find that his legs were shaking grievously. Exhaustion was creeping upon him, and the dwarf’s dragging weight in his arms was pulling him off balance, requiring that his back compensate for the change to his center of gravity. It was an effort he did not have the energy to make, and Legolas found himself stumbling forward.

  
__

Good, he told himself, his thoughts tinged with desperation. _Use the weight. Let it pull you forward. And direct your mind back to the pain. Think only of the pain in shoulder. Feel it throb. Feel it ache. Walk in time to that pounding. Walk in time to the beating of your heart. Forward now. Forward. Faster. Feel your heart pound. Run. Run, you fool, or you will share the fate of your horse!_

  


And so Legolas ran, his gait awkward and stumbling while his mental promptings and the constant pain from his shoulder acted as a source of energy. His staggering feet wove a twisting trail in the desert sand, but he was too caught up in his own world to notice. And had he stopped to notice, he would have probably collapsed. His lungs burned and his throat was on fire. Pressure behind his eyes was making it difficult to see. His tongue had swollen from thirst, and perspiration trickled down his neck and his back, salting the arrow wound and making it throb all the more. And Legolas needed all the distraction he could get, for he had reached his limits and was moving past them. His entire focus became the pain in his shoulder, and he took no measures to lessen that pain. It occupied his mind to the extent that he did not hear the pleas and complaints issued him by his failing body. He did not know how long he ran. He lost all sense of time and space. He did not see where his feet took him. He forgot the weight in his arms. He was alone in a world that pounded his senses with exquisite agony, blinding them to anything that might stand in his way.

  


And then his foot struck something hard that did not shift beneath him as the sand did.

  


Startled back into reality, Legolas almost lost consciousness as he once more became aware of burning heat and glaring light. His limbs trembled, threatening to collapse beneath him. His head pounded, his heart raced, and his lungs screamed. But all these things were forgotten as the elf stared in wonder at the sight before him.

  


He had done it.

  


He had reached the rocks.

  


Yet just as quickly as elation hit him, it died. Staring at the rugged outcroppings and the jagged pathways that led into the heart of these dark rocks, Legolas realized he had just exchanged one set of problems for another. The glistening black surfaces were absorbing the sun’s heat, and the elf could feel the fiery blast sweeping outward, hitting him even upon the outskirts. In some ways, this area was be even deadlier than the open sand.

  


Watching the air waver above the volcanic ground, the elf felt his heart sink as he berated himself for not anticipating this. He should have known! The black slopes of the Ephel Duath did the same thing during the height of summer. But Legolas’s fraying mind had not looked far enough ahead to foresee this development. Had he been conscious, Gimli would have certainly expected to find such a thing. A dwarf was always looking ahead when matters of the earth were concerned. But Legolas was not a dwarf, and despite Gimli’s best efforts, he would never be able to think like a dwarf. He had not seen this coming, and now that he faced it, he did not know what to do about it. To venture into the rocks without a clear destination was nothing less than suicide.

  
__

But then, so is remaining in the desert, Legolas thought despairingly, glancing behind him at the sea of sand. _Our only chance is to trust the hand of fate and move forward._ The idea of trusting fate brought forth a rather insane laugh from the back of the elf’s mind. But if Gimli was to have any chance at all, there was no other choice. They had run out of both options and time. And Legolas was nearly out of strength.

  


Closing his eyes, the elf murmured a brief plea to Elbereth for her assistance, and then he started forward. This time, he could not afford to concentrate upon the pain in his shoulder, for he needed to be aware of his surroundings. He needed to find shelter and he needed to find it quickly. He was only beginning the journey into the rocks, but already he could feel the heat from their black surfaces burning through the soles of his shoes. For the first time in his life, Legolas paused to think that perhaps mortals did have the right idea in fashioning their thick, clumsy boots. Such boots would be a much better means of protection for his feet.

  


But there was nothing he could do about that now, and so Legolas stoically continued, feeling his energy drain from him with every step. He knew instinctively that if he went down, he would not be able to rise again. He knew that if he stopped to rest, he would not be able to start again. Any halt in his progress at this point in time would be the last thing he ever did, and so despite his stumbling feet and shaking legs, he continued his desperate search for a cave. _A cave!_ he thought wryly, a bit of maniacal humor entering his thoughts again. _To think that it has come to this where I, an elf, should be longing for a cave! Ai, Gimli, my father was right. You have changed me so much that I am beyond the capacity for rational thinking!_

  


And as he finished this thought, Legolas fell.

  


He did not know what caused his fall. He did not know if he tripped or if weariness finally conquered him. All he knew was that he was suddenly flying toward the ground. Using the last bits of faltering strength, Legolas turned, shielding Gimli from the impact and positioning his right shoulder to absorb the brunt of their weight. And much to his surprise and discomfort, the maneuver worked.

  


Legolas had no strength left to cry out, but he did gasp in pain as he crashed onto the burning surface of the rocks. The gasp left him desperate for air, which caused him to inhale sharply. This action came with another set of consequences, and he found himself choking upon the heated air as it scorched its way into his lungs. And as the desert sun continued to beat down upon him, an overwhelming sense of shame and failure filled his mind. He was defeated. He could go no further. At his side, he felt Gimli shudder, perhaps sensing the inevitable. Placing a hand upon the dwarf’s brow, he whispered a broken apology through cracked lips that hungered for any semblance of moisture. The surrounding world blazed white as Legolas’s senses failed him, and as a last act of defiance, the elf turned his head away from the sun, not allowing its fiery gaze to witness his death.

  


It was then that fortune finally decided to pity him.

  


Through dimming eyes, Legolas saw what looked to be a shaded place, hidden from the sun by an overhanging cliff. The thought entered his mind that if he could reach the shadows, he might be able to lose himself in unconsciousness before the heat took him completely. Legolas did not know why this would be a better way to die, but he found himself strangely drawn toward the darkness. And as his mind continued to unravel in the heat, he became unable to ignore this sudden prompting to seek the shade.

  


Somehow, he managed to take Gimli in his arms again and rise to his feet. He did not know where he found the strength to do this. Possibly it was the last he had to offer. His muscles were cramping and his entire body was shaking, but he stayed upright and he staggered toward the enticing shadows. And as he neared them, he felt a stroke of cool air upon his cheeks.

  


Gimli, perhaps, would have recognized this flow of cooler air for what it was, but Legolas only knew that it was comfort. He followed this stream of relief, not caring where it would lead. He closed his eyes in sweet ecstasy, feeling the chill brush against his face and stir tendrils of golden hair matted by sweat and exertion. He stumbled into darkness, reaching the shadows, and still he walked. The cool air beckoned him onward, and on the verge of collapse, he followed it until a surge of instinct suddenly bid him stop and open his eyes. And what he saw would forever remain emblazoned on his memory as an eternal symbol of hope.

  


He had found a cave.

  


With a choking sob, Legolas stumbled toward the entrance, pausing for a moment as his mind reeled at the thought of salvation. Readjusting Gimli in trembling arms that were moments away from losing all strength, he stepped further into the darkness and stopped, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light. This took longer than it should have taken under normal circumstances, but Legolas barely noted the delay for something along the back wall of the small cavern—and it was small, barely half the size of Meduseld’s main hall in Edoras—caught the elf’s undivided attention. There was a wavering glimmer reflecting the tiny slivers of light that graced the dark cave. At first Legolas was certain that his mind had succumbed to his trials and was playing a cruel game. But as he focused upon this glimmer, he eventually realized that it was no trick, and tears unbidden filled his eyes. Exhaustion forgotten, Legolas raced toward the back of the cavern and fell to his knees, heedless of the sharp rocks beneath him. Laying Gimli flat upon the ground beside him, the elf flung himself forward and wept unashamedly with joy as he dunked his head into a pool of water.

  


The cold liquid received him with welcoming arms and began to drain the heat from his body. It soothed his parched throat and roused his wayward mind. It caressed his brow and soaked into the top of his tunic as he all but submerged his upper body. The shock of this sudden temperature change made him shiver, and Aragorn might have warned him to take care. But Legolas was beyond caution. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he finally lifted his head from the water, mixing with the cool droplets that now trailed down his hair and over his face.

  


His body clamored for more water, and Legolas readily obeyed its demands, once again lowering his head to drink. His entire being exalted in his relief, and the ashes of hope flared back to life within his heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was not yet free from danger. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that Gimli still lay perilously close to death. He knew that the Khurintu tribe would not easily forgive him for what he had done. He knew there would be pursuit come sunset, and he knew that he needed to return to Haradhur, for Aragorn and Eomer would be in danger. He knew that an attempt to find the city might well prove impossible, for he was not certain of his location. He knew that he could not carry the dwarf another night, and he knew that Gimli would not be able to move himself for quite some time. But even as these doubts began to nag him, Legolas pushed them aside. For the moment, he was lost in an impossible realm of bliss as he sated his thirst and splashed water over his face and onto the back of his neck. For the moment, there was hope.

  


And for the moment, that was enough.

 

  


 

  



	33. Friends in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

The sweet chill of night vanished swiftly when the sun cleared the horizon. The day was barely begun, but already temperatures began to climb sharply. The winds that had wandered the desert in the company of shadows died away, feebly stirring up a few pockets of dust ere vanishing completely. They would return in the evening to create twisting columns of flying sand, but until then, the sun and the heat held sway. None could contest their authority, and any that dared—men, beasts, and elements all—soon learned the folly of their actions.

  


Wiping away the growing sweat on his brow, Arhelm whispered quiet words to his straining mount, urging the gelding to even greater speeds as he and four other riders raced across the desert wasteland. None of them had yet said a word of dismay or concern, but spirits were dropping quickly. Even the horses could sense it, and the proud arch of their necks was disappearing as a sense of desperation began to creep over the group. They were too far from Haradhur to make for the city, and their only hope for survival this day lay in following the dim trail that had led them north and west during the night.

  


When Eomer had sent ten riders into the desert with Arhelm as their commander, he had not been overly explicit in his instructions. They were to head northeast and look for signs of the men who had taken Legolas and Gimli. Any possible leads were to be followed, if possible, a rescue was to be staged, and they were to return to Haradhur come dawn. These rather broad orders had gifted the riders with a certain amount of latitude in what actions they chose to take, and most Rohirrim had a knack for creative interpretation of vague directions. Arhelm was no exception.

  


Halfway through the search for Legolas, Gimli, and their captors, one of the riders had discovered a trail of hoof prints leading west. A quick debate had been held, for the point was raised that Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli might have been transferred to horseback so as to facilitate transportation, especially if the elf and dwarf were unconscious. But the Rohirrim could not be certain of their theory, for the faint imprints in the sand only gave numbers of horsemen, not types. This trail might have been made by traders who had nothing to do with Khurintu, Gondor, Rohan, or anyone else. But the possibility still existed, and such a possibility could not be ignored. After all, Eomer had ordered that all opportunities be explored.

  


In the end, Arhelm had divided the company evenly, taking four riders with him and following the new trail while the other five continued along the original path under Eos’s leadership. This decision would probably not meet with their liege’s approval, for the king had authorized a group of ten riders with the idea that ten could mount adequate defense in addition to possibly creating an opportunity for rescue. But Eomer had never directly forbade them to separate; therefore, it could be justified. If there was one area of creative interpretation in which the Rohirrim excelled, it was pushing the limits of their commands.

  


Unfortunately, it seemed that fate had turned against them this time. The gamble had not paid off, and now Arhelm was not entirely certain of their location. Even if they tried for Haradhur, they might veer too far to the east or the west and miss it completely. And their steady gallop had born them many miles along their current path. They were too far away for any to see them or for any to find them and come to their aid. If search parties were dispatched—a rather unlikely possibility—they would not stray more than a mile or so from the city during the day, particularly with temperatures so high already. No, their only chance at the moment was the dim hope that somewhere along this trail they would find water and shelter. If they didn’t…

  


Arhelm flicked a quick glance over his shoulder and evaluated the condition of his riders. They were tiring, as were their mounts, and the heat was sapping their remaining strength quickly. The horses were breathing much harder than they should have been, and sweat was beginning to trickle down their legs. And as for the men, two seemed dazed and were becoming pale while the other two looked as though every ounce of water in their beings was now devoted to perspiration. It was only a matter of time before someone hit the sand, and once they stopped, they would probably be unable to resume the journey.

  


Shouting meaningless words of encouragement, Arhelm gave his horse his head, hoping against hope that the gelding would find what they needed. His mount snorted and tossed his head, confused by this new tactic, but he seemed to realize what was happening and picked up his speed. The other horses followed, for they were well trained and did exactly as the lead animal did. Even though their riders were now faltering, they would not. It was their duty to bear their masters as far as they were able, and if they sacrificed their lives in the process, so be it.

  


Thus, they continued beneath the morning sun as the desert began to burn with heat. Reaching for his saddlebags, Arhelm found his water skin and brought it toward his lips. It was warm to the touch and very little water remained in it. The Rohirrim had traveled light in the hopes of quickly catching those who had taken Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas. Now it seemed that this gamble had been a poor one, and fate continued to frown upon them. With a sigh, Arhelm uncorked the skin and drank the last of his water. It was unpleasantly tepid and did almost nothing to quench his thirst, but at least it was something. He heard similar actions being taken behind him, and judging from the sounds made, he decided that all the riders had just exhausted or nearly exhausted their water resources for the night. It was now up to the horses.

  


Strangely enough, that thought gave Arhelm some comfort. In truth, his stocky gelding was the one creature in whom he felt he could place absolute trust. No matter how the forces of chance and misfortune had arrayed themselves against him, he and his mount were together. Together, they could overcome. And even should they die together, neither would have to be alone afterwards.

  


"Captain! Ahead!"

  


Arhelm blinked, wondering exactly how his thoughts had managed to stray from what was happening around him. Still, as he focused his mind once more, it was really little wonder that he had lost touch with himself. The world was beginning to turn into a white blaze that both intrigued and chilled Arhelm. He was no longer hot but clammy. He did not feel sweat trickling down his back. In a rather abstract sense, he realized he was probably only moments away from blacking out due to the heat, but he was powerless to do anything about it.

  


"Captain!" the same rider called, sending his horse abreast of Arhelm’s. "Captain, look ahead!"

  


It required a great effort of will for Arhelm to turn his eyes forward. The sheer monotony of the desert landscape had eliminated his desire to see more of the land that was about to witness his death. But somehow, marshalling the legendary pride and tenacity of the Rohirrim spirit, he managed the feat. The horizon was blurred and shapes seemed to be leaping about through the narrowing tunnel that was his vision, but despite this, far in the distance, he made out what appeared to be several small shapes on horseback riding away from them on the trail that they’d been following. It was such dramatic change from hours of nothing but endless wasteland that he nearly cried aloud in surprise. And beyond these tiny shapes, he could swear that he saw…

  


"Water," Arhelm murmured, the word barely escaping his parched lips.

  


"Sir, it could be an illusion," the rider warned.

  


"Illusion or not, we are spent," Arhelm answered. "There is no other hope for us. Onward!" he called, his raspy voice somehow carrying to his men. "Onward, for we are nigh unto relief!"

  


How they did it, Arhelm never knew. He lost all sensation of movement, and even the faltering strides of his horse went unnoticed. Later he would learn that his men felt likewise, some more and some less. None were in any condition to be riding, and were it not for the loyalty and wisdom of their horses, all would have been lost. But after a time, it seemed to Arhelm that they were gaining upon the travelers before them. And as they began to draw closer, he made out markings and colors upon their flying robes. Markings of the Khurintu tribe. It also occurred to him that the water he’d seen was not an illusion but rather a lake. A rather familiar lake…

  


"Nurnein!" one of his men hissed. "Captain, it is Lake Nurnein!"

  


Arhelm froze, and the gelding beneath him slowed his gallop to a canter in response. Nurnein? It seemed impossible. Nurnein was the last hidden lake on the north-south road before one reached Haradhur. Had they really come so far from the city? Granted that it was difficult to judge distances in this desert. Endless stretches of sand had a tendency to baffle the eye, and there was also the fact that those living here used time as a standard of measurement rather than the physical length between landmarks. Beyond that, their journey between Lake Nurnein and Haradhur had been interrupted by a sandstorm, which made the distance even more difficult to judge. But Nurnein…

  


Still, Arhelm could no longer deny the evidence before him. They were clearly approaching Lake Nurnein. But if this was indeed the case, then they were far too removed from Haradhur. It would be well into the middle of tomorrow’s night ere they could return and report to their king, and the command to report _this_ night had been one of Eomer’s few specific orders. Their liege would not be pleased with them, and that was assuming they could even survive the day. No shelter awaited them at Nurnein, and even with the presence of water to soothe their parched throats, they would be without shade from the sun unless some of the Haradrim were willing to take them in. And considering the current attitude toward foreigners, that seemed an unlikely prospect at best.

  


"Captain, your orders?" one of the riders in back asked, his voice sounding weak and distant.

  
__

My orders, indeed… Arhelm closed his eyes and murmured a quiet curse. Because they could not return to Haradhur, the Rohirrim forces in the city would be diminished. Moreover, it might be assumed that Khurintu or another tribe had attacked and killed the missing riders, which would only make an already volatile situation worse. But at the moment, there was no help for any of that. Arhelm’s choices had been poor ones, but they could neither be corrected nor atoned for. Not yet. For the moment, he had to consider their own situation as well as the fact that they might not live to see nightfall.

  


"Captain?"

  


"We ride for the lake," Arhelm said quietly. He had not the energy to make his voice any louder. "When we arrive, we drink our fill despite the traditions of the Haradrim, and we seek what shelter we may find. Should we live to see the close of the day, we will to return to Haradhur with greatest haste, leaving before the sun has set completely."

  


"The king will not be pleased, sir," one commented.

  


"Nay, he will not," Arhelm murmured. "Let us hope we might live to endure his wrath."

  


"Sir, what of those we are following? They bear the colors of Khurintu."

  


The captain fixed his eyes upon the distant riders and sighed. "It does not appear that they transport prisoners. We will continue to follow them, but that is all we can do, for none of us are in any condition to confront them. At the moment, our own safety is paramount." Arhelm shook his head wearily and then nudged his horse back into a gallop. "Ride! We have not much longer ere we can continue no more."

  


And so they rode, steadily gaining upon those they had been following but neither noticing nor caring. The heat and the sand had subdued them more thoroughly than any opposing army had ever managed to do. Not even the dark whispers and maneuverings of Saruman had so completely conquered the proud Rohirrim. Their only thoughts were of water, shade, and rest. Loyalty to the king and honor for the realm had disappeared as their minds deteriorated beneath the onslaught of the sun. In every sense of the word, they were defeated, and all that remained for them to do was to retreat and regroup as best they could.

  


Had they kept watch upon the Khurintu tribesmen before them, they might have taken comfort in the knowledge that their quarry was as weary as they. By now, the pursued could clearly see the pursuers, but like the Rohirrim, the riders of Khurintu were too exhausted to worry that they were being followed. Their only aim was also the lake, for the sand was becoming as hot as coals beneath their horses’ hooves and the animals were beginning to stumble with weariness and haste. Both groups had spent too much of the morning in the open desert.

  


Several minutes later, Arhelm’s gelding suddenly snorted and shifted to the side mid-gallop. Blearily, Arhelm summoned his exhausted mind back from the brink of unconsciousness. Looking around, he managed to clear his eyes long enough to discover that they were now less than a mile from the lake. Relief filled his mind at the thought of the water that waited, but relief did not last long when he turned his eyes to the Khurintu tribesmen. They had reached the lake, and some were filling water skins and quenching their thirst. But others, having already tasted the water’s sweetness, had turned to meet the coming Rohirrim, their hands near the sword hilts and their mounts dancing.

  


Arhelm heard the murmurs of his men as they also saw what was coming, but there was naught that could be done. They were outnumbered, and they were too weak to force their way through. To turn aside and seek another portion of the lake would be fruitless, as Khurintu was certain to follow. Having reached the water first, they were more than prepared to prevent the Rohirrim from gaining access, and the Rohirrim were in no condition to contest them.

  


Hope died in Arhelm’s heart, withering away as a drop of water caught in the unforgiving glare of the desert sun. But as hope died, resolution grew. The Khurintu tribesmen would be victorious, of that there was little doubt. But Arhelm intended to see that they sorely regretted the price they paid for victory. Drawing his own sword, he raised it defiantly and cried aloud in the tongue of Rohan. Behind him, his men did likewise, shouting challenges as their mounts picked up speed in a last, desperate charge. And at their cries, there was a sudden stir in the many tents that surrounded Lake Nurnein.

  


His face was grim, but inwardly, Arhelm smiled. Let the Haradrim come forth and see his final battle. He would show them the power of the Rohirrim, and perhaps he would raise doubts in their minds. Perhaps he would gain respect for his king. Perhaps in this small way, he might make amends for failing to return when he was ordered to do so. It would certainly not remedy all the problems that his disobedience would cause, but it would help. And at this point, that was all he could do for his king and his country. Now that there was no hope for survival, the desert held no power over him, and his desires for water and rest were eclipsed by the resurgence of his unswerving loyalty. With his dying breath, he would make these Haradrim pay!

  


So caught up was he in these thoughts that he almost missed what happened next.

  


The tribesmen that faced the Rohirrim suddenly turned, and cries of battle echoed behind them near the lake. A group of men had emerged from one of the tents and had commenced an attack on the Khurintu riders. Fresh from shade and water, the newcomers quickly overwhelmed the weary Haradrim. Rested horses, silver lances, and bright swords caught the light of the morning sun, and the group of Khurintu tribesmen scattered even as they were cut down. The confused Rohirrim arrived just in time to see the last of their would-be attackers flee toward a collection of tents further down the shore of the length. Dumbfounded, Arhelm could only watch in weary disbelief as a protective circle formed around the staggering Rohirrim, preventing any of the distrustful Haradrim from taking advantage of their bedraggled state.

  


"Well met, captain," a voice called out, and a tall rider broke from the encircling group. "Arhelm, is it not? Yours is a welcome face in this land. Mayhap you can explain some of the rumors that have reached us."

  


Arhelm blinked and stared, his sluggish mind attempting to comprehend all that had happened. Heat and thirst were once again manifesting themselves in his body, and he could no longer hold them off. "Prince Imrahil?" he whispered, feeling that disbelief could go no further.

  


The prince’s eyes narrowed and he moved as though to speak, but at that moment, Arhelm’s body gave out. He dimly felt himself toppling forward, and he heard voices rise in sudden alarm. A few embers of pride flared to life, informing Arhelm that Rohirrim warriors did _not_ fall from their horses, but he decided that pride was simply not worth the effort. Too weary to respond to the voices that called him, Arhelm slipped into blissful darkness.

  


His last thought before succumbing to the oblivion of night was the hope that someone would take his horse to the water.

  


* * * *

  


His hair drenched and his eyes filled with tears, Legolas slowly lifted his head from the cave’s pool and murmured his thanks to the Valar. Water ran down his neck and beneath the collar of his tunic in long rivulets, spreading its healing touch to his chest and back. It raced over his bare arms, soothing the burns caused by the harsh strokes of the sun, and worked its way down to his legs, ensuring that its cold touch caressed every part of his body. Yet even that did not seem to be enough after the heat he had endured, and he moved as though to throw himself completely into the pool’s embrace and sink beneath the surface.

  


But before he could do so, a quiet moan beside the elf drew him back.

  


"Gimli…" Legolas whispered, guilt rising swiftly as he realized that he had all but forgotten about the dwarf. Taking no more thought for himself, he hurriedly turned to his friend and laid one hand upon his brow while the other immediately felt for a pulse. As sick as Gimli was, the heat might have killed him, and this thought filled Legolas with such terror that his stomach turned within him, threatening to expel the water that had moments before provided him with such joy.

  


But beneath his shaking fingers, Legolas found the rhythm of Gimli’s racing heart. The pulse was erratic and weak, but it was there. However, the dwarf’s skin was uncomfortably hot to the touch. Burning, almost, and it was not from prolonged exposure to the sun. His fever had grown dangerously, and it alone might be enough to send the dwarf into a sleep from which he would never wake.

  


Panic seized the elf. If circumstances remained unchanged, Gimli would not last much longer. The dwarf needed proper food and rest. Food was out of the question at the moment, and lying upon a cold, rocky floor did not seem like rest to Legolas. Beyond that, he needed medical attention. Not just basic field medicine, but the care of a skilled healer, and for that, he needed Aragorn. Legolas knew the rudimentary procedures for broken limbs and shallow stab wounds. He knew how pull an arrow and set a dislocated shoulder. But he did not know the first thing about treating mortal ailments, and given the severity of Gimli’s illness as well as the conditions…

  


Whatever relief the elf had once felt upon finding the cave was now gone, and feelings of claustrophobia and creeping shadows began to take his heart. He glanced with longing toward the cave’s mouth where a small amount of light revealed the burning rocks beyond the safety of their shelter. Some of this light reflected off the black surfaces and managed to give Legolas a bit of light with which to see, but it was not nearly enough to thoroughly examine Gimli. But he could not take the dwarf toward the light, for the heat grew as one approached the entrance, and Legolas would rather keep Gimli as close to the water as possible. But here in the back of the cave, he might as well have been working blind, and this, coupled with his feelings of fear and ignorance, only served to make his growing panic worse.

  
__

Focus, he told himself firmly. Throughout the entire frantic escape, he had managed to keep his concentration, allowing for almost nothing in the way of distracting emotions. He could not afford to lose that edge now. For Gimli’s sake, if not his own, he had to remain completely and utterly calm. But it was so difficult with the return of hope. They had a chance at survival now, and this chance was destroying Legolas’s poise. Earlier, when it seemed that fate had appointed them to die in the desert, the elf had felt that there was nothing to lose in using extreme measures. But against all odds, they still lived, and there was a possibility that they could both continue to live. _Yet that shall not be if I cannot control myself!_ Legolas scolded furiously.

  


Taking a deep breath, Ithilien’s lord stilled his thoughts and slowly exhaled. He felt the tension drain from him, and he collected himself within the center of his mind as he had been taught to do while training as a warrior. Fear and doubt still existed, but they could be ignored for the moment while he tended to other things. And having regained some of his focus, the elf turned back to Gimli.

  


The first thing to be done was to cool the dwarf’s temperature, for it was dangerously high. Legolas had never felt a fever so violent, though he hoped that this might be because he had so little experience with fevers in general. Still, he had seen enough to realize that Gimli’s greatest peril at the moment was his burning brow. Reaching down, Legolas seized the lower portion of his tunic below his belt and tore off a long strip. He dipped it into the pool and then placed it over the dwarf’s forehead. He then tore another strip of cloth from the base of his tunic and also submerged it in the cool water. Pulling it back out, he began to wash Gimli’s face and neck, working primarily from memory and touch as there was too little light for anything else. Loosening the dwarf’s shirt, he opened it and began to wash the chest before moving on to the arms. He did not know how much this helped, but he could think of nothing else that might aid his friend. He considered the idea of submerging Gimli in the water, but he discarded that thought when he remembered the infection in the dwarf’s leg. Should that contaminate the pool, they would lose their only source of drinking water.

  


Legolas ran his rag over Gimli’s upper body a second and a third time before he was satisfied that he had managed to lessen the fever slightly. The dwarf was now too wet to accurately measure his temperature, but his breathing was no longer quite so labored. The cloth on Gimli’s brow was beginning to warm, though, which meant that the fever still raged. After removing this cloth and soaking it in the pool once more, Legolas placed it back on the dwarf’s head before steeling himself for what he knew he had to do next.

  


The cause of the fever had to be treated. There was no way around it. Regardless of Legolas’s ignorance in the ways of healing, he had to care for Gimli’s leg or the fever would only grow worse and the infection would spread until it could not be cured. The thought of attempting to heal the dwarf frightened Legolas more than he cared to admit, for he knew well that his hapless bumbling might cause more harm than good. Beyond that, the lack of light in this cave meant that everything would have to be done by touch. Even Aragorn might flinch before such circumstances, and he had the training of Elrond to back him. Legolas had only his desperate desire to see that Gimli survived this experience, and he had very little hope that this desire would compensate for his lack of skills. But that could not be helped now. The dwarf was running out of time.

  


Moving his hands to Gimli’s swollen right thigh, he loosened the tunic sleeve that he’d tied around the leg just below where it joined with the hip. Then he placed his hands upon the bandage that covered the wound itself and carefully began to unwrap it. Leery of ripping away protective scabs or of further tearing the skin, Legolas forced himself to have patience and to move with painful slowness, but it was difficult thing. By the time he completely removed the bandage, he felt he would go mad. But he was compensated when he could detect no trickle of blood from the wound. Somehow, his desperate efforts in the desert had managed to staunch the bleeding. A spark of confidence crept into his mind, and feeling slightly better, he moved to the next task.

  


His confidence died with painful abruptness and when he put a hand on the dwarf’s uninjured leg so that he might compare the size of the two limbs. The right leg was now twice the size of the left, and the swelling felt as though it extended to the knee and the calf. Legolas could also feel heat emanating from the wound, and with a surge of fear, the elf realized that the leg should probably be lanced.

  
__

Lanced?! I am barely able to set a broken bone! How shall I go about lancing such a wound when I cannot even see the leg!? Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. He had never seen it personally, but he had heard stories of infections that were not lanced and consequently spread until they corrupted the entire body. But he had also heard stories of infections that were lanced improperly and resulted in the patient’s death. What if the same happened here? What if Legolas could not control the bleeding? What if he cut too deeply? Or what if the infection did not drain? What if it had already spread too far and lancing would cause greater complications? What if there was nothing to do but wait because Gimli was already past—

  


The elf stopped himself before he could get much further with that thought. Redirecting himself onto things he could control, Legolas once again ran his hands over the wound and grimaced. He was not entirely certain of his judgement, but he felt that the odds were against Gimli’s survival if the wound was not lanced. It needed to be drained, and hopefully the infection would be drained with it. But he would not act when the dwarf lay unconscious. Without light, he had no reliable way of monitoring the effects his actions would have. He could listen to Gimli’s breathing and keep a close watch upon his pulse, but these indicators were already compromised by weakness. They were no longer reliable measures of the dwarf’s condition. If this was to work, Legolas would need Gimli conscious and coherent. He would have to lance the wound while the dwarf was awake.

  


Waves of guilt pulsed through the elf as he laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and shook it gently. He had no right to ask this of his friend. Aragorn would be able to do this while Gimli slept, sparing him further pain. But Legolas was not as skilled, and because of his lack of training, Gimli would be forced to suffer needless torments. Yet the elf could not chance doing this any other way. It was simply too dangerous. He was already doing much of this based on guesswork and vague memories of having seen similar procedures. Though this would involve adding to Gimli’s agony, Legolas’s fear of making a deadly mistake would not allow him to do anything else.

  


"Gimli?" Legolas whispered gently. "Gimli, can you wake?"

  


There was no response.

  


Fear crept into his throat and formed a lump, making it difficult to swallow. Once again, his treacherous mind posed the question as to whether or not it was already too late. But Legolas shook these grim thoughts off and continued his efforts to rouse the dwarf. "Gimli, you must wake," he said. His voice was level, but he was unable to hide the note of desperation and urgency. "Gimli!" he tried again, shaking the dwarf’s shoulder a bit harder. "My friend, answer me!"

  


As before, the dwarf did not answer nor give any sign that he had heard. A greater fear began to take Legolas’s heart, and a strange heaviness weighed upon his chest. Unnatural darkness swam before his vision and his stomach began to churn, rejecting the water that had saved his life.

  


"Gimli!" he shouted, his cry echoing off the cave’s walls. "Gimli, if you can hear me, you must respond! In the name of Ilúvatar, answer!"

  


And quietly, scarce to be heard, Gimli moaned.

  


Legolas nearly sobbed in relief. The breath he did not know he’d been holding exploded from him in a choking gasp, and he clutched one of the dwarf’s hands tightly to his chest, bowing his head as his shoulder shook. "Thank you," he whispered. "That was a start, my friend. A good start. But now I need more. I know it is difficult, but you must wake."

  


Gimli moaned again and shifted, tensing slightly at the movement as though in pain. The dim light that filtered into the back of the cave caught fluttering eyelids, and after a moment, it reflected off of the eyes themselves. But there was something wrong. Legolas could not be certain—for it was quite dark—but Gimli’s eyes seemed to be drifting in and out of focus. It was almost as if… _The head injury! Valar, I had nearly forgotten! And the fever shall only make it worse. Perhaps I—_

  


"Legolas?"

  


The hesitant voice seemed to be torn from the parched lips, and it lacked the depth and power that normally characterized the dwarf. But Legolas did not notice this, so relieved was he that Gimli recognized him. Or rather, the dwarf recognized the elf’s voice, for it was unlikely that he could see much in this darkness. Even had it not been dark, his sight would have probably been blurred. The blow to his head only two nights previous would still be affecting him.

  


"I am here, my friend," Legolas assured the dwarf, taking Gimli’s hand in his own and squeezing it tightly. "Peace. I am here."

  


"I…I can not see you." The voice was weak, and if such a thing could be possible for one so brave, Legolas would have said that the dwarf was frightened. The very thought made him wince, and terror once again surged through his body. In the seven years he’d known the dwarf, he could count on one hand the moments in which Gimli had openly displayed fear.

  


"I am beside you, _elvellon_ ," Legolas assured him, fighting to control the worry in his voice. "It is dark here, and there is little light. Be at peace. You are not meant to see me now."

  


"Where?"

  


"Do you remember the rocks I mentioned earlier? The dark rocks to the south?" Legolas asked. "That is where we are. I found a cave." The elf picked up the rag he’d been using to wash the dwarf and dipped it in the pool. "I also found water."

  


"Water?"

  


"Yes, water," Legolas confirmed, running his damp cloth over the dwarf’s face. Gimli groaned at the action and relaxed beneath his friend’s touch, making no attempts to protest the attention. That by itself was enough to double Legolas’s concern.

  


"Thirsty," Gimli murmured, almost sending the elf into shock with this admission.

  


"A moment," Legolas answered weakly, attempting to keep a façade of calm and quiet while his mind staged a full-fledged panic attack. Somehow managing to maintain his focus, he tore yet another shred from the lower half of his tunic and dipped it in the water. Cupping a hand around it so as to hold in as much moisture as possible, he turned to Gimli and slid one arm beneath his back.

  


"Legolas?" Gimli questioned. "Legolas, what are you—"

  


"Hush," Legolas commanded gently, lifting the carefully dwarf as he did so. When Gimli’s lower back rose off the floor, Legolas stopped and brought the dripping cloth to the dwarf’s mouth. "Suck the water from this," he instructed. "I fear to move you more than necessary, and I have no other way to transport water."

  


The dwarf, though, seemed to have no qualms with this method of drinking for he instantly began draining water from the cloth, his body going limp as he did so. Legolas sat still until the dwarf finally released the tunic shred and shifted. "My thanks," Gimli murmured, his voice clearer now. "We…you said we are in a cave?"

  


"Yes, we are," Legolas said, lowering the dwarf back to the ground and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Would you like more water?"

  


"Perhaps in a moment," he muttered. He shifted beneath the elf’s hand, and Legolas could feel him tense. "How do we fare? I feel that something is amiss."

  


"You are correct," Legolas sighed. "Gimli, the infection in your leg has grown and is raising your fever dangerously. I believe the wound must be lanced, but…I am uncertain of how to go about this. Have you any experience in these matters?"

  


The dwarf was silent, and then Legolas felt him shake his head. "I know very little. I have seen it done before, but I have only done it once myself."

  


"Then you know more than I," Legolas confessed thickly.

  


"A fine pair we make," Gimli grumbled. "It cannot be delayed?"

  


"I fear it may already be too late."

  


"Then I suppose there is little to lose," Gimli said, his voice carrying a forced note of brevity.

  


"Gimli…"

  


"How did you intend to do this?"

  


Legolas swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to suppress his irritation that Gimli seemed to be handling the situation better than he was. "I am open to suggestions," he admitted quietly.

  


Stunned silent met this announcement, and then Gimli sighed. "Would that Aragorn were here," he muttered.

  


The elf dropped his head. "I apologize for my lack of skills, but there is naught that can be done about that now. I am sorry."

  


"Nay, you misunderstand," Gimli answered, and something in his voice caused the elf to look up and study as much of the dwarf’s face as he could see. "I wish for Aragorn so that I might have a witness to this. No one will ever believe me when I claim that you asked me for advice. And knowing your haughty elven pride, you will deny that it ever happened."

  


For a moment, Legolas could not react, so confused was he by this response. Then a flash of hot anger flared in his heart, and his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder tensed. "I do not believe that this is the time for jests, Gimli."

  


"If not now, then when?"

  


"Perhaps in circumstances less dire," Legolas said sharply.

  


"Circumstances less dire have no need of jests," the dwarf returned. "The tension runs so cave in this room I could slice it with my axe. I do not want to have you lance my leg in your current condition as you are far too upset. Therefore, I sought to calm you with jests. If I cannot manage the feat, then you must do so yourself. Still your thoughts, Legolas. Release your frustration and guilt. They do not help you now, and they might harm me."

  


Had Legolas been in a more relaxed state of mind, the sheer irony of the situation might have reduced him to uncontrolled laughter. A badly injured dwarf was telling an elf to pause for a few moments and relax. The very idea was so ridiculous that it would have been dismissed outright by anyone who did not witness the scene for themselves. Unfortunately, Legolas was too caught up in fear and concern to see the humor in what was happening, and his anger at the dwarf only increased. "Gimli, we waste time. We need to—"

  


" _You_ need to use those vaunted elven talents of concentration and cease trembling!" Gimli interrupted sternly. "Your hand shakes upon my shoulder. It is bad enough to give me doubts as to whether you could make your arrows hit the long side of the Rammas Echor."

  


With significant effort, Legolas closed his eyes and swallowed the angry retort that nearly escaped his lips. Gimli was right. He was far too tense to be of aid, and he needed to regain the focus he’d sought earlier. It was lost again, and until he found it, it was too dangerous to lance the leg. Withdrawing into himself, he centered his thoughts and then released a long breath of air before finally opening his eyes and looking toward the dwarf. "Why in Elbereth’s name would I be trying to hit the long side of the Rammas Echor?" he asked quietly.

  


"Better," the dwarf grunted, a slight moan entering his voice.

  


"Gimli?"

  


"It is nothing."

  


"It is not nothing! Gimli, what is wrong? Your voice is weaker."

  


"I…may have taxed my resources too greatly," the dwarf admitted reluctantly, his words somewhat faint.

  


"Nay!" Legolas cried. "Gimli, you must stay awake."

  


"Legolas, would you keep another awake if you were drawing an arrow from their side? No, you would not. You would let them drift into dreams before you did such a thing. Therefore, I suggest you let me sleep while you lance the leg."

  


"This is different," the elf whispered, cursing his ignorance over and over again. "I have some experience in drawing arrows, but not in lancing wounds. I cannot do this without your aid. I cannot let you sleep."

  


"What aid could I possibly give?"

  


"When I lance your leg, I need you to tell me exactly how you feel. And you must inform me of any changes. Any weakness or dizziness. In this light, I cannot see enough to distinguish between the drainage of sickness and the flow of blood. I fear to make a mistake."

  


"I am already dizzy, and I am already weak," Gimli grunted. "I doubt I shall notice any differences."

  


"Then for the ease of my mind, if nothing else," Legolas pleaded.

  


The dwarf sighed, and he could not quite hold back the tremor of pain that crept up his body. "For your sake," he agreed reluctantly, "though I think I would rather be unconscious."

  


"I dare not risk that," Legolas whispered, feeling the weight of guilt press hard upon his heart. "I am too unsure of myself."

  


"Were our positions reversed, I would probably ask that you do likewise," Gimli said quietly, absolving the elf of blame. "And now we return to a question that you have yet to answer. How did you intend to do this?"

  


"But I did answer that question. I asked for your suggestions."

  


"Ah, yes. And I wished for witnesses."

  


"You wished for Aragorn, who would not have woken you in the first place."

  


"But since Aragorn is not here, we shall do this as best we know how while ignoring thoughts that might distract us," Gimli said firmly. "And since neither you nor I know what we are doing, this should prove interesting."

  


"Gimli—"

  


"I believe the first order of business will be to find something sharp, preferably free of dirt and grim as well."

  


Legolas frowned but allowed the interruption to pass. "I still have the flint and steel that I took from you while on the horse," he said. "The steel has a sharp edge to it."

  


"Sharp for some purposes. Dull for this," Gimli muttered. "But I can think of nothing better. It will have to serve. How clean is it? Or did you make a point of dropping my tools in the sand when you engineered your haphazard escape?"

  


Had he not been injured, the elf might have throttled his friend. He was still quite uneasy with what he was about to do, and the fact that Gimli did not seem to be taking this seriously bothered him greatly. "You have already expressed your concerns about my uncertainty," Legolas said, his voice quiet and cool. "I have now calmed myself. There is no longer a need for your jests. Please desist."

  


"If I must stay conscious for your sake, then you must listen to jests for my sake," Gimli replied. "They are keeping my mind alert. And you have failed to answer my question about the steel."

  


Deciding that it would probably be best if he simply ignored the dwarf’s flippant attitude—or _tried_ to ignore it, as the case might be—Legolas reached into his tunic and retrieved the steel from a hidden pocket on his left side. "The steel is as clean as can be expected. I shall wash it in the pool, but I fear it will not change its cleanliness much."

  


"It cannot be helped," Gimli sighed. He shifted beneath Legolas’s hand and groaned slightly. "Well, if we are to do this, let us begin. I know not how much longer I can stay awake."

  


"Then I shall be swift," Legolas promised, leaving Gimli’s side and moving toward the pool. He quickly submerged the steel and rubbed the sharp side that he intended to use, hoping he removed most of the dirt and grime that he could not see because of the dim light. Upon finishing his task, Legolas moved back and positioned himself next to Gimli’s leg. "I am ready, my friend, if you are."

  


"Legolas?" The dwarf sounded suddenly hesitant, and Legolas wondered if he was having second thoughts about this procedure. But it was necessary. His only chance for survival lay in draining the infection.

  


"I will be as gentle as I can, _elvellon_."

  


"I know that," Gimli said sharply, and there was a sting of indignation in his voice. Yet the hesitancy was still there, as though he wished to speak of something but could not find the words.

  


"Gimli?" the elf questioned.

  


"Legolas, you…you may have to restrain me for this. I do not know if…if I will be able to remain still."

  


Legolas froze, his breath catching in his throat. Closing his eyes, he swallowed and nodded slowly. "I understand. And I will try to make this swift."

  


"You promised me that already," the dwarf grunted. "Get on with it."

  


Bracing himself much as Gimli was doing, Legolas placed his right knee upon Gimli’s knee and his left hand upon the thigh just above the worst of the swelling. He ran his right hand lightly over the wound, pushing away the torn fabric of his pants so as to get better access. Taking one last deep breath to calm his mind, he placed the steel against the skin and murmured a quick prayer to any of the Valar that might be listening. "Forgive me, _elvellon_ ," he whispered, and with these words, he pressed down.

  


Gimli had been right in his thoughts that he might not be able to control himself. The dwarf jerked violently to the side, and though Legolas was in considerably better health than his friend, he was hard-pressed to keep Gimli still. Bearing down with his knee, he flung his upper body onto the dwarf’s hip while his right hand continued to drag the steel downward. A terrible cry the likes of which he had never heard from Gimli split the air, and Legolas longed to echo that scream with his own vocal expression of pain, but he could not lose his focus. With his heart tearing asunder, he completed the stroke and then flung the steel away as though it burned him.

  


"Forgive me," he whispered, catching Gimli’s clenched hands in his own and holding them tightly. "Forgive me for making you endure that."

  


The dwarf gave no response but went completely stiff as though trying to master his body’s reaction. His hands trembled and a long groan rumbled out of his throat, but the screams of pain were now gone, their echoes fading away into whispers.

  


"Gimli?" Legolas stared at the dwarf’s face, trying to make out details in the darkness. "Gimli, how do you fare? Was the cut too deep? Think you that you are losing too much blood?"

  


"Cannot tell," the dwarf hissed, his voice strained and his breath labored.

  


"Try," Legolas encouraged, hoping to distract his friend from what had just happened. "Try, or this shall have been vain."

  


There was silence for a moment, and then Gimli gave a sharp jerk of his head. "I believe you were successful," he whispered. "Aside from the pain, I feel no different."

  


"Thank the Valar," Legolas murmured. "How long shall we allow it to drain?"

  


A pause was his answer and then Gimli shifted slightly. "I do not know."

  


With the sinking feeling that perhaps they could have prepared a bit more for this, Legolas called to mind all the instances of lancing that he had ever witnessed. Unfortunately, he could not remember having ever stayed to watch the entire procedure. He never imagined that he might have to perform the act with no more help than what an equally ignorant friend could provide.

  


"Legolas, I think you may want to clean the wound as it drains," Gimli whispered, his hands clenching tighter beneath the elf’s hold.

  


"Is that wise?"

  


"I do not know," the dwarf admitted. "But I believe I have seen that done with other lanced wounds."

  


"I have no memories of such a thing, but you may be a better judge in this case than I," Legolas murmured, gently releasing the dwarf’s hands and backing away. "Yet first, I would see you drink a little."

  


"Nay, there is no need," Gimli murmured, and his voice seemed to become distant. "Go about cleaning the wound. I shall be fine."

  


"You are losing fluids!" Legolas said sharply. "And though this is what we desire, you must replace them."

  


"I will be—"

  


"You will _not_ be fine!" Legolas snapped, moving toward the pool and wondering if all dwarves were such bad patients or if he was singularly unfortunate to have made friends with this one. "Now lie still for a moment and I shall bring you drink."

  


"Legolas!" Gimli moved as though to sit up but immediately cried out and fell back. 

  


The elf was at his side instantly, one hand upon his shoulder and the other upon his brow. "Gimli? Foolish dwarf, what were you thinking?"

  


"I cannot take water now," Gimli muttered, his voice so soft that it was difficult to hear. "My stomach will not allow it."

  


Legolas blinked, not having anticipated this development. "What of the water you already drank?" he asked worriedly. "Shall that—"

  


"I can keep it down for now, but do not make me drink more."

  


"My apologies," Legolas whispered. "Rest quietly, then, and I shall see if I can clean the wound without causing you further pain. Tell me if you wish me to cease."

  


"I will be fine," the dwarf grumbled. "Go to work."

  


With a sigh, Legolas picked up the tunic sleeve that had been used to lessen the flow of blood to the leg. Dipping it in the water, he returned and seated himself beside Gimli’s leg, running his hand over it and grimacing at the feel of puss and fluid that now soaked the area.

  


"You will have to delve deeply," Gimli said. "I do not think that our captors cleaned the wound at all."

  


"Nor do I," Legolas agreed, trying to ignore the sudden queasiness that had crept into his gut. With a deep breath, he placed the cloth on the leg and pressed it into the wound, working it back and forth slowly and trying not to gag as he did so. His hand fit entirely within the wound, and the fluids released from the swelling soaked the rag he was using. He could feel Gimli’s muscles tensing around the injury, and he was forced to steady the leg when it began to shake. For several minutes, he mopped the wound free of gathering liquids and hoped he would be able to forget this horrid day in years to come. When he felt he’d done all he could, he withdrew and sat back, his eyes turning to his friend’s face.

  


"You are finished?" Gimli asked, and his voice had become faint and weak.

  


"Yes, I am," Legolas answered, putting the cloth aside and reaching for the dwarf’s brow. His temperature seemed to have dropped slightly, but it was a change so small that it might have been the work of false hopes. "How do you feel?"

  


A long pause preceded the answer. "Strange."

  


Legolas frowned. "Explain," he ordered, pushing back his fear.

  


"I…do not know, but I think you should bandage the wound again."

  


Fear exploded within the elf, and he hastened to do as Gimli had asked. "Was it too much? Are you losing blood now?"

  


"I cannot tell, but…I think I shall not be conscious much longer," the dwarf confessed, and this admittance only served to heighten Legolas’s panic. Once again, Gimli was not belittling his injuries but rather confirming that all was not well. His usual bravado was gone, and for this to happen…

  


"Perhaps this was a mistake," Legolas murmured, tying the tunic sleeves tightly around the injured thigh.

  


"Too soon to tell," Gimli whispered. "We’ll know by tonight. If I’m still alive, then—"

  


"Rest," Legolas commanded, not ready to listen to anything concerning the dwarf’s survival that began with _if_. "You have done more than enough."

  


"Legolas?"

  


"Yes?"

  


"Thank you."

  


The elf blinked and looked up, though he could not make out the dwarf’s expression in the darkness. "For forcing you to endure such torment?"

  


"For trying," Gimli sighed. "I do not know if I would have had the courage." And with these words, the dwarf faded from the world of the waking, his shallow breathing deepening slightly and the tension in his body fading.

  


Legolas was left alone in the darkness.

 

  


 

  


 


	34. Coming Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few quick notes. First of all, the list of tribes and people can be found at the end of this chapter. I have a feeling that some of you might be wanting it.

Within the desert, the sun was the undisputed master. Lesser beings might squabble among themselves, seeking dominion over water or territory, but in the end, the sun always had the final say. Under its blazing heat and blinding light, even the most dauntless of creatures cowered and trembled. Nothing directly opposed the sun. At least, not intentionally. Those who did challenge its authority soon found themselves mercilessly beaten and driven into the ground. No quarter was asked, and certainly no quarter was ever given. Even the elements themselves seemed to submit to the sun’s command.

  


But exceptions did happen.

  


Exceptions were rare, it must be said. Almost unheard of. But now and then, the impossible would come to pass. Something would contest the indomitable sun. Something would rise up and defy its burning presence. These exceptions did not happen often and they did not last very long, but they did occur. And this day was witness to one of these singular events as a column of smoke loomed overhead and blocked the first rays of light that crept over the horizon.

  


Asbad had been born in the desert. He had been raised in the desert. It was his wish to die in the desert, even if their current plans yielded success and the lands of Gondor and Rohan fell into the hands of Khurintu. But for all his many years of desert life, Asbad had never seen anything obscure dawn’s first light. Not like this. A mountain, building, or tent might act as a temporary shield, but the light was never lessened or dimmed by these things. Yet this was exactly what was currently happening. The morning sun was vibrant and hot as it rose over the sands, but its light did not completely reach many of the Khurintu tribe for they were shadowed by a cloud of ash and smoke. Moreover, the smell of burning flesh permeated the air, further clouding the senses and mitigating the sun’s power. That the master of the desert should be so defeated was not a good omen, and the ruler of Khurintu’s tribe was keenly aware of the fact that the sun’s subjection was very much his fault.

  


A firm believer in both accountability and punishment, Asbad ruthlessly berated himself for the night’s disastrous sequence of events. It should not have happened. It should not have even been possible. But what was done was done, and he was now forced to accept the fact that he had severely underestimated his captives. Under _ma’awna’_ s influence, he had expected the elf to be far more compliant and submissive. He had not believed that the elf would be able to carry the dwarf for the entire night, much less successfully escape with him. The elf should not have even considered the idea, for he knew not where they were, nor did he know the direction of any nearby hidden lakes. One of the Haradrim under similar circumstances would have remained captive until learning his whereabouts. But apparently the elf had thought action could no longer be delayed. Further study into elves and dwarves should have been taken, for it was apparent now that none of them had been adequately prepared.

  


What had gone wrong?! Every mistake had its roots. Every mishap had a beginning. Where did the origins for this one lie? Asbad cursed furiously, pushing his mind back over the night and analyzing each and every action that had taken place. He was fairly certain that things had been on track before they struck out in the evening. It was only after they’d been journeying for several hours that Asbad had received the sense that he’d somehow lost control of the situation. But when and how had he lost control? What had been the pivotal moment?

  
__

The dwarf, he thought to himself. _It was the moment I showed leniency toward the dwarf. That was where it began._

  


Tracing events from the moment that the dwarf had first fallen, he tried to account for the cascade of cause and effect that had ultimately led to the loss of not one but _both_ prisoners. And as he did so, he realized that he probably should have killed the dwarf outright when the creature first collapsed. He had threatened to do so from the beginning. But he had not fulfilled his threat. That was his first mistake.

  


His second mistake was to listen to the elf.

  


Somehow, the elf had convinced him that the dwarf would rise and walk again if given sufficient rest. Asbad should not have considered such a thing. The Khurintu tribe could not afford to linger over a prisoner who did not necessarily need to live in order to serve their purposes. But the elf was so insistent, and Asbad had suddenly found himself doubting… Blessed _Iluh_ , he had actually given his consent when the elf demanded that his bonds be released!

  


This had led to his third mistake, which was trusting the elf. True to his word, the elf had managed to rouse the dwarf, but then he had claimed the right to help his friend. For some reason, Asbad had granted this. He could not say why. Had pity moved him? If so, it would be a first. But then, the night had been full of firsts. Perhaps it was not so impossible to think that compassion and mercy had overwhelmed his heart. Perhaps that would even explain why he had allowed the elf to carry the dwarf after the dwarf collapsed a second time. But the insolence that the elf had shown…that had gone virtually uncontested, and such a thing was unheard of. The elf had taunted Asbad’s men, mocked Asbad himself, killed three tribesmen when they sought to subdue him, and seriously injured two others. So as punishment, they had forced him to carry his friend. But that was no punishment, for it was exactly what the elf wanted!

  
__

I have been manipulated! Asbad roared silently. No one manipulated Khurintu’s tribal head. No one. Not even Budari of the Lotessa tribe had actually managed to maneuver Asbad as thoroughly as the elf had. Yes, it was clear now that he should have killed the dwarf. That would have undoubtedly silenced the elf and sent him into a state of shock, making him easier to handle.

  


Still, now that he thought on it further, Asbad wondered if killing the dwarf might not have also killed the elf. There was a bond between the two creatures that both intrigued and unnerved Asbad. The elf had been more than willing to die to save his friend. Had the dwarf perished, the elf might have thrown himself onto their swords in a fit of madness and rage.

  
__

But even if I could not have killed the stunted creature, I should have kept a closer watch upon him. I see now that he was the key, Asbad berated himself. _By the blood of Mordor, this changes everything! I have come so far and waited so many years, and to fall now because of a simple error…a miscalculation…a manipulation, no less!_

  


Asbad considered placing at least part of the blame on Dashnir, for the man had not adequately informed him of the loyalty between elf and dwarf. Nor had he informed him of the elf’s abilities and just how far the elf would go in order to save his friend. But even as he toyed with this idea, Asbad recognized that Dashnir would have had no way of knowing the elf and dwarf that well. He traveled with them from Dol Amroth to Haradhur, but never had the dwarf been in such dire straits and never had the elf’s abilities been tested like this. The oversight was understandable, which made the fault entirely Asbad’s. And Asbad was wise enough to admit it.

  


With a despairing sigh, Asbad rubbed his hands over his face and look around. The Khurintu tribe was in disarray. Over a quarter of their horses were now dead or seriously wounded thanks to the blast of fire engineered by the fleeing elf. The rest of the mounts were skittish and frightened. It was taking the efforts of all the hale men to hold them down. Fortunately, very few of the warriors had been killed by the exploding fire, but many were injured and Asbad seethed because of their loss. This could have been prevented, and that was what gnawed at him the most. This could have all been prevented! But he had failed to act, and now they were struggling to order themselves, the sun was beginning to break through the cloud of smoke, and they had not even struck their tents or unpacked the water that had been brought!

  


"Honored one!"

  


Asbad looked up as one of his men drew near, firmly holding the halters of two horses. "Report," he commanded harshly.

  


"We have sighted riders approaching. We believe it to be Dashnir and those we left behind at Haradhur."

  


Asbad hissed slightly. He had hoped to order the camp before Dashnir arrived, but it seemed that this would not be possible. "Get the horses under control and pitch the larger tents, if you can," he ordered, his eyes turning to the horizon where he made out the small figures of horsemen. "We must get all the animals beneath the shade."

  


"As you command, honored one," the man said, inclining his head before hurrying away.

  
__

As I command, Asbad sighed, his face darkening as he gazed at the ruin around him. _Yet my commands were as naught during the night. If only…_ His thoughts trailed off and his brow furrowed. With a frown, he shook his head sharply, attempting to regain control of his mind. Such self-pity was unlike him. True, he was responsible for the loss of the two prisoners, but to belabor the fact as he was doing… What was happening to him?!

  


Deciding to lose himself in work until he could decipher what was going on, he moved toward some of the packs that had been taken from the horses and began searching for the water skins. Dashnir’s company would have great need of fluids after traveling beneath the rising sun. In fact, now that he considered it, Asbad realized that they were somewhat late. They should have arrived just before sunrise, yet the sun was nearly an hour into the sky already.

  
__

Had they come according to the times we established, they might have prevented the escape, Asbad thought bitterly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the approaching riders. But even as this crossed his mind, he shuddered and turned away. Something was yet affecting him. Something that clouded his judgement and stole his reason. Perhaps that song from the elf… Perhaps that had done something…

  


"Asbad!"

  


Asbad jerked. Only those of equal rank addressed him by his given name, and there were none here that fit that description. Scanning the men around him—all of whom seemed to be equally startled—his eyes finally stopped upon the approaching horsemen, specifically the foremost rider. "You presume much, Dashnir," he said quietly.

  


But Dashnir did not seem to be listening. He was staring at the blackened bodies of horses and servants as well as the wounded who were now being assisted into the tents that had been struck. Reining his horse to a halt next to his leader, Dashnir shook his head wordlessly, his mouth opening and closing as though he longed to speak but could not find the words.

  


"Dashnir!" Asbad said sharply, pulling the man’s attention away from the scene of destruction.

  


"Your pardon, honored one," Dashnir murmured, only now seeming to realize what he’d done. "But when I witnessed from afar what had happened…" He trailed off and shook his head, his eyes returning to the charred carcasses. "How did this come to pass?" he demanded, his face showing disbelief.

  


"Dismount and walk with me," Asbad commanded, still somewhat incensed. The lapse in protocol was understandable given the wreckage, but understanding did not imply lenience. Dashnir would have to be taken to task. _As the elf and dwarf should have been_ , Asbad thought with disgust as he began walking away from the men who had come to dispense water and handle the newly arrived horses. "You are late," he said when he felt Dashnir join him. "And you are out of order."

  


"I freely acknowledge my guilt, honored one," Dashnir sighed, the bewildered tone in his voice fading as he mastered his emotion. "And I accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow.

  


Asbad grunted and stopped, glancing over his shoulder at the camp where the smoke was finally lifting, allowing the sun to once again have mastery. "Whatever punishment I bestow, it will have to wait. We have other priorities. But I will not forget this indiscretion."

  


"Nor will I, and it shall not happen again," Dashnir assured him, bowing his head in a manner that was appropriately repentant. "But honored one…" Dashnir looked back toward the camp, his eyes narrowing. "How did this happen? And what of the prisoners? Are we still able to use them?"

  


The muscles along his jaw tightened, and Asbad cast his eyes out into the desert, heedless of the sun’s reflection upon the sand that could blind a man if care was not taken. "The prisoners are no longer here. They escaped."

  


"Escaped?!"

  


"We were not adequately prepared for their abilities," Asbad said shortly.

  


Astonished silence met this statement, and then Dashnir shook his head, his eyes betraying his confusion. "How? What happened?"

  


Asbad hesitated for a moment, attempting to collect his scattered thoughts. "It was strange," he said slowly. "I do not completely understand how it was done myself. But I will share with you all that I know. We rendezvoused with the forces from Lake Hajim and were beginning to unload horses so that we might make camp. And at that point, the elf began to…to hum."

  


"Hum?" Dashnir echoed.

  


"Yes," Asbad answered, calling to mind every detail that he could remember in an attempt to explain the next series of events to both himself and Dashnir. "There was something very strange about his voice, and his hum eventually became a song without words. I thought to order the guards to silence him…but I found I could not speak. I could only listen. And then his song changed. Abruptly. I felt as though I was released from something, and then the horses reacted violently. We could not control them and they began to stampede. And at some point in the chaos, the elf leaped upon one of the horses with the dwarf, and they began to flee."

  


"The dwarf went with him, then?"

  


"The dwarf had no choice. The elf had been carrying him for the better part of four hours."

  


Dashnir blinked. "Why?"

  


"Because the dwarf had swooned and would not wake. He was injured by a thrown knife when we attacked their camp in Haradhur, and his leg was not healing cleanly. Infection set in and he became feverish. The first time he collapsed on our journey, the elf was able to rouse him and he walked on his own for a time. But the second time, he would not stir and the elf would not allow us to kill him."

  


"The elf would not _allow_ you to kill him?" Dashnir stepped back and then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Did you place the elf beneath _ma’awnwa_?"

  


A twinge of uneasiness pricked at Asbad’s mind. "It was my understanding that this made him easier to control."

  


"Yet you allowed the elf to revive the dwarf, and when the creature could not be revived, you allowed him to carry his friend." Dashnir shook his head. "The elf was not the one being controlled, honored one. Did you not mark my words when I told you of Garat’s death? If a man remains in close proximity to the elf for a length of time, the shadow will eventually sunder his own tie to Eru’s song."

  


Asbad was silent for a moment. He had indeed hearkened to Dashnir’s words about Garat and the journey from Dol Amroth to Haradhur. He was very aware of the dangers presented by an elf beneath the shadow of _ma’awnwa_. At least, he thought he’d been aware of it. But now that he considered the night’s events with _ma’awnwa_ in mind, he was no longer certain of himself.

  


"The dwarf is valuable to us alive, but he is not essential. You could have had him killed. The elf would have probably taken no measures to escape had he not been concerned for his friend."

  


He should have seen that. He should have known that. It was obvious now, in hindsight, but hindsight was almost always clear. Yet even so, such judgements of character were well within his ability to note and distinguish, even though he had not been acquainted with the prisoners for very long.

  


"And I warned you that the elf had been making adaptations while under _ma’awnwa_ ," Dashnir continued. "Honored one, he was not to be underestimated! He should have been bound and under strict guard at all times."

  


"You have made your point, Dashnir," Asbad said quietly, his eyes hard. "I see now what happened. You have no need for further elaboration."

  


"If that is your wish," Dashnir said, though he sounded rather dubious. He was silent for a moment, and then he sighed and shook his head. "Would you then indulge me by relating the rest of the escape? You say that the elf and dwarf took a horse, but that does not explain the smoke and the stench of burning."

  


"The horse they stole was carrying bags of the blasting powder," Asbad said, grateful for the change in topic. "The elf set fire to the cloth, and tossed it behind him. There were several horses following at that point, apparently drawn by whatever call he had issued, and some of them also carried the blasting powder. When the bags he’d thrown ignited, they were all caught in the blast. After that, the surviving horses became restless and would not be handled. We could not pursue."

  


"Then they are lost to us," Dashnir whispered.

  


"I believe that we managed to score several hits with arrows," Asbad murmured. "The horse they took was clearly wounded. Its might have been as well, but we cannot be certain of that."

  


"How ill was the dwarf, honored one? Is it likely that he could survive the day?"

  


"The possibility is slim," Asbad said with a shake of his head. "Especially if he is without shelter or water. The elf will be hard-pressed, as well. In all likelihood, they have already perished. Their horse would not be able to carry them for long. If they are not yet dead, it is only a matter of time. We should turn our thoughts to other things. The prisoners are beyond our reach."

  


"But we have both underestimated them already," Dashnir cautioned. "There is a line of volcanic ridges to the south. They might reach these rocks and find shelter with water. In that event, they are still a danger."

  


"I suppose that it is a possibility," Asbad conceded reluctantly. "But it is a remote one. The odds are very much against it."

  


"The odds were also very much against escape," Dashnir countered. "Honored one, we must not let this fall to chance. They could still be alive! And if they are, they will seek to return to Haradhur. We cannot allow this! We will have no control over their actions. We will lose the illusion that we are operating beneath the authority of the _Iluh_. And should we lose that, we lose the support of the tribes. Everything falls apart."

  


Asbad studied his second-in-command for a long moment. The argument was valid and the point convincing, but there was something deeper going on behind the words. Something on a more personal level. "This is not about ensuring our success," Asbad said at length. "I sense that you need to recapture these prisoners for your own sake. At the very least, you need to confirm for yourself that they are dead. Why?"

  


Dashnir’s jaw tightened and his eyes darkened, but to his credit, he met the challenging look in his superior’s eyes and did not back down. "I feel a measure of responsibility for the loss of the captives. It was my suggestion that the original plans be altered. It was my suggestion that we abduct the elf and the dwarf. Had we kept to our previous plans…" He trailed off and looked away as an expression of shame flitted over his face.

  


"You may have suggested the change in plans, but I approved it," Asbad said firmly. He was not in the habit of consoling his men, deeming that a wavering warrior was little better than a dead warrior, but Dashnir was an exception. He had never before floundered like this. Moreover, Asbad needed Dashnir. He would never admit it to anyone for it was a weakness on his part, but he would not be able to rule the Khurintu tribe without Dashnir’s intuition. Asbad could not allow his subordinate to falter now.

  


"Even so, I should have realized the risks when I was forced to take _ma’awnwa_ from the elf before we even reached Haradhur," Dashnir hissed. "I should have realized then that holding the elf for any period of time was a risk. Such a thing should have been left to Umbar."

  


"You were still operating somewhat beneath a shadow," Asbad answered. "You could not have foreseen this. And your suggestions for change held great merit. A gift had been provided to us. It would have been folly not to take it. By capturing an elf and a dwarf, we could demonstrate our control over creatures of legend. We could have also moved up the time of our attack on Gondor by providing Umbar with an elf."

  


"Had we left the elf alone, we could have taken him during tonight’s battle at the same time that we took Aragorn," Dashnir hissed with a shake of his head. "The dwarf would have been killed along with Gondor’s forces and most of the Rohirrim, and Umbar would have received their elf. Then tidings of what happened would have reached the northern countries, the Rohirrim would have demanded an immediate assault on Harad for the loss of their king, and Gondor would have denied it for fear that we would kill their own hostage king. The ties between the two realms would have disintegrated, and as they bickered one with another, Umbar would have completed its research and destroyed Ithilien, giving us a base from which to launch our attack."

  


"But would we have obtained the honor of killing the dwarf and subduing the elf had we not abducted them? I think not," Asbad said. "They would have fallen under suspicion as agents of the Destroyer even had we not insinuated such a thing, and they would have been either murdered or confined by the Gartabo tribe. Aulit would then have received great power and respect for his ability to act against the Destroyer’s agents. He would have rallied the tribes against Gondor and Rohan, and we would have only been another force to add to his tally. We would not have been in a position of power. We would not have been able to gain mastery over the other tribes. Nay, Dashnir. When the elf and the dwarf entered the desert, they destroyed part of our plans. We did not foresee such an event. And we compensated as best we could."

  


"Perhaps," Dashnir muttered. "But are such compensations now moot? We have no dwarf to kill before the other tribes as a symbol of our power. We have no elf to give to Umbar. What now do we do?"

  


"We compensate yet again," Asbad answered. "We combine elements from both plans and we capitalize on what has already been done." He looked out across the desert and frowned. The temperatures were beginning to rise and they should probably retire to the tents, but he could not quite bring himself to move. It seemed that he had badly underestimated many things, and until he set the situation to rights, he did not want to leave. Besides, the heat was clearing his thoughts, burning away distractions and irrelevant details. "I need to know if you were followed on your journey away from Haradhur," he said. "And I need to know how many followed you."

  


"Yes, I was followed," Dashnir confirmed, seeming to shake himself and focus again on the situation. "But the numbers are something of a mystery. Only Rohirrim followed us, of that I am certain. But initially, we believe there were ten riders. However, toward the latter part of the night, there seemed to be only five. And before the end of the night, they turned back. Given the speed of their mounts, it is probable that they will reach Haradhur before the sun rises high enough to prevent travel. They will not be camping in the desert this day."

  


"You are certain?"

  


"As certain as one can be without witnessing it directly."

  


Asbad cursed quietly. "Then they will be wearied but not unduly so. If I am not mistaken, you predicted that the entire Rohirrim contingent would follow you, leaving Gondor alone in the city. Was your estimation of Eomer’s loyalty to his friends in error?"

  


"Nay, I think not. Rather, I believe I did not account for Eomer’s loyalty to both his kingdom and to Gondor," Dashnir said, his voice somewhat bitter. "And perhaps Aragorn was able to deduce that our next strike would be against Haradhur. He is a man of great perception. If so, he would have kept as many Rohirrim in the city as he could."

  


"So they will be at nearly full strength, and because of this, they will undoubtedly have endured the day well despite the hostility from the other tribes." Asbad sighed and rubbed his brow, noting the moisture that had begun to bead. It was high time to retreat to the tents.

  


"Honored one?"

  


"Tonight, just ere sunset, you will take a small number of men and trail the elf and the dwarf," Asbad said quietly, closing his eyes as the beginnings of a plan began to coalesce in his mind. "Find them at all costs. If they are still alive, kill the elf and recapture the dwarf. Following that, make all speed to Haradhur."

  


"But what of Umbar and their desire for a living elf?" Dashnir questioned.

  


"They will have to obtain such a creature on their own. Our elf is too dangerous to leave alive. He must be dispatched. And if the dwarf is not alive when you find him, take his head and bring it with you when you ride to join us at Haradhur. We will use it as a symbol in lieu of a demonstration. And keep the elf’s body," Asbad added, almost as an afterthought. "We will send it to the Corsairs. Perhaps they will be able to find some use for corpse."

  


"And what of you, honored one? What plans shall you make for the battle?"

  


"What plans I make for the battle must needs be determined by the decisions of Gondor and Rohan. They may meet us as warriors upon the desert, or they may hide in the city, using Haradhur as a shield. In either case, though, it becomes clear that we must fall upon the original strategy with perhaps a few changes. Aragorn will be taken prisoner, but we will leave no guards from either country alive."

  


"I thought we were to use the Rohirrim survivors as messengers of our deeds."

  


"Such was our intent until the realms of the elves and dwarves became involved. With their pressure, Gondor may not be able to hold Rohan at bay long enough for our forces to become ready. And because we are not giving them a live elf, we will need to buy more time for Umbar to complete their preparations. Therefore, we will send no messengers but rather allow search parties to come to us. At that point, we will give them the head of Rohan’s king and send them back with the tidings that Gondor’s king yet lives. Hopefully, we will then be able to stall their actions long enough for Umbar’s ships to join us at Pelargir."

  


"Our victory is not as sure as it once was," Dashnir murmured.

  


"Nay, but we knew our risks when we planned this. We knew there was a chance that events could turn against us. Victory may not be certain, but neither is it beyond our grasp. Come," he said with a glance toward the sun. "We must retire now and set the watch, for we shall have need of our strength this night."

  


"I will find the elf and the dwarf," Dashnir said quietly as the two began walking back to the tents. "I promise you that. They will not defy us again."

  


"Remember that I shall need you in Haradhur by morning," Asbad cautioned. "If you seek to punish them, do not be long about it."

  


"I will do no more than is necessary."

  


Asbad nodded, knowing he would have to be content with this answer. Dashnir’s tone indicated that he still felt a measure of personal responsibility insofar as the elf and dwarf were concerned, and he would not be stopped until he felt satisfied. But Dashnir knew where the priorities lay, and he would not allow himself to indulge for too long. It would be well.

  


Reaching the tents, Dashnir left to speak with the guards and also to select men to accompany him on their search for the prisoners. As he did so, Asbad drifted to his own tent, flicking a glance skyward as the sun beat down upon them. The shadow of smoke that had previously loomed over the camp was gone now, burned away by the consuming heat of the morning. Things were again as they should be, and the sun once more held sway. It was a good sign. Darkness and trouble might reign for a time, but in the end, the strongest was victorious.

  


In the end, the desert always won.

  


* * * *

  


The eastern gate of Haradhur was unusually quiet. Given the fact that the sun was now rising swiftly into the sky, this should not have come as a surprise. However, the events of the past night as well as the presence of several Rohirrim guards made the stillness a bit eerie. The very air spoke of tension and growing unrest. Passing men murmured darkly to one another as they regarded the Rohirrim. Others hissed and shook their heads when they gazed out the gates toward the smoking remains of the Portu encampment. Had it not been for the Lotessa soldiers that surrounded the Rohirrim, they would have probably been attacked and seized. But since there was a guard set and the guard was comprised of one of the more powerful warrior tribes, no one had taken any action against the Rohirrim. But it was really only a matter of time before someone did.

  


Arabano pursed his lips and loosed a quiet sigh even as he moved into the shade of a nearby building. Budari had tasked him with waiting for the returning Rohirrim and also with gathering information regarding Fastahn. Apparently, Aragorn and Eomer suspected Fastahn of betraying the Soltari tribe. And as Arabano considered the idea, he could see and understand where such a theory might originate. The Soltari tribe held no standing grievance with the Khurintu tribe. At least, none that the Lotessa tribe knew of. Yet for some reason, they had become a target of this…Orthanc Fire, as the northerners termed it. One explanation for this would be that Fastahn—who seemed to have spent a suspicious amount of time around the Khurintu tribe—betrayed their confidence. The Soltari tribe had been privy to the information that the Destroyer had been Asbad. It was possible that Fastahn revealed this to Dashnir and that Dashnir then ordered that the Soltari tribe be eliminated. It was a logical conclusion and made a certain amount of sense.

  


But Arabano did not believe it.

  


He felt that he knew Fastahn fairly well. The man was resourceful and tenacious, if somewhat slow on the uptake at times. He was a faithful member of Soltari’s advisory council, and as far as Arabano knew, he had never betrayed his tribe’s trust. In all things, he had sought that which would be best for his people. Arabano could not see him betraying the Soltari tribe. He had no motive to do so. Khurintu tolerated spies and traitors as long as it served their needs, and then such assets were eliminated for reasons of security. Fastahn knew this, and because he knew this, he would not have participated in an act of treachery for reasons of gain or power. He would earn none of these with Khurintu. And other reasons he might have—disputes with fellow tribesmen or other leaders—could have been solved internally. There would have been no need to turn to Khurintu for aid. _No,_ Arabano thought with a shake of his head. _Betrayal does not fit with Fastahn’s desires or personality. He is many things and takes on many roles, but a traitor is not among these._

  


Unfortunately, Arabano did not have an alternative theory to counter the assumption that Fastahn was the traitor, so he had said little in the way of protest when Budari sent him off to conduct the investigation. Until he could offer another explanation, he would not hinder the work to prove the current theory. But he would direct this search with his own objectives in mind. That latitude was certainly afforded him as second-in-command. And so he found himself staring out the eastern gate while half of his men waited quietly around him and the other half scoured the city for Fastahn. In this way, he was able to fulfill his leader’s wishes while distancing himself so that he could think. At no point had Budari said that Arabano himself needed to be involved in the hunt for Fastahn.

  
__

Although, I suppose that was implied in the command and thus did not need to be spoken, Arabano admitted silently. _Perhaps I have spent too much time around these Rohirrim. They seem to view rules as loose boundaries that can be pushed and stretched as needed._

  


With a sigh, Arabano firmly pushed thoughts on the Rohirrim aside and returned to his musings on Fastahn. He felt that his superiors were correct on several counts. The Soltari tribe was probably not on the list of original targets for this Orthanc Fire that Khurintu had used. There would have been nothing to gain from attacking them. They were not a military threat by any stretch of the imagination. Moreover, it would be foolish to strike against them because they controlled much of Harad’s agriculture. Offending the Soltari tribe was something that was simply not done. Yet Khurintu had attacked them, and here again, Arabano was forced to agree with his superiors’ reasoning. The leaders of the Soltari tribe had known that Asbad masqueraded as the Destroyer. Khurintu probably learned of this, and to eliminate the threat this posed, they attacked. It was the only explanation that made any sense. All that was left to be determined was _how_ Khurintu had learned of Soltari’s knowledge. Arabano was convinced that it had not been through Fastahn, but what other way could it have been done?

  
__

Who among the Soltari tribe would have known the identity of the Destroyer? Fastahn knew, for he told me of it. But who else? Khesva. Khesva would have known, and Khesva would have told his second as well as those of the ruling council who are here in Harad. But surely they would not have allowed it to spread further than that. Such knowledge is dangerous. Therefore…either Khurintu has agents on Soltari’s ruling council and they reported the knowledge to Dashnir, or one of Soltari’s leaders dealt treacherously. And if the latter is the case…

  


Arabano’s thoughts trailed away and his brow furrowed. The latter option made no sense. If there were indeed agents of Khurintu that high within Soltari’s hierarchy, they would have no need to destroy the tribe using Orthanc Fire. There were other, far more subtle ways to accomplish such a thing. And these other ways could ensure that Soltari maintained reasonably good relations with Khurintu, thus ensuring a steady supply of food. No, it was clear that someone from the Soltari tribe itself had done the betraying. But if this had been an act of treachery on the part of the Soltari tribe, the evidence clearly fingered Fastahn. He was the only one to have survived the blast. He had been in the city at the time, well away from the danger. He was the suspect with the greatest opportunity for such betrayal. Almost everything about the situation pointed to Fastahn. But motive was still missing, and as Fastahn did nothing without reason, motive was essential.

  


A sudden stir among the men around him drew Arabano from his contemplations, and he moved away from the wall that provided shade, hoping that the missing Rohirrim were the cause for this disturbance. The sun was well above the horizon, and the temperature was rising steadily. If the Rohirrim did not arrive soon, they would not arrive at all.

  


Shading his eyes against the sun’s light, he stared into the desert and eventually made out the figures of approaching riders. Their speed was that of a swift gallop, but it was clear to see, even from this distance, that the pace was anything but smooth. The horses were beginning to stumble, and the men atop them seemed weary and desperate, as though they had ridden for the duration of the night and had failed to find that for which they searched. It could be no one but the Rohirrim.

  


Arabano barked a sharp word of command to the surrounding Lotessa guards, and they obediently fell in behind him as he strode out of the gates. The other Rohirrim who had waited near the gate were quick to join them, and together they hastened toward the faltering riders. At a signal from Arabano, the men of Lotessa spread out in a flanking pattern, guarding against any assault from the city. It was unlikely that any would choose to attack now as it was growing too warm for any strenuous physical activity, but the area around the eastern gate had been unusually quiet. Arabano would take no chances. And the riders yet had to pass several camps in the desert before actually reaching the city. This could still become interesting.

  


By now, Arabano could see the riders clearly enough to distinguish the colors, and he confirmed that this was indeed the missing group of Rohirrim. But…there were only five of them. Budari had said that there would be ten. What had happened to the other five riders?

  


His lips pressing together in a firm line, Arabano narrowed his dark eyes and quickened his pace. Ominous thoughts crowded his head, and a rather cynical part of his mind sighed in weary resignation. He should have expected this. After all, it would have been too much to ask that all the missing riders return. Their current run of misfortune was simply too good a streak to break.

  


"Honored one…"

  


The quiet murmur behind him pulled Arabano out of his despairing thoughts, and he directed his eyes to the man who had addressed him. The guard nodded to the side, and Arabano turned, quickly seeing what had caught the other man’s attention. The camps without Haradhur were beginning to stir, having also seen the approaching riders. Men gathered outside small tents, their eyes trained upon both the riders and the group that went to meet them.

  


"Draw your swords," Arabano murmured quietly to his warriors, pulling his own curved blade from its sheath. "Let them see our strength."

  


The crisp ring of metal sounded loud in Arabano’s ears, and to his relief, he saw some of the men in the camps turn away and retreat into their tents. They would not contest Lotessa. Not yet, though as Arabano had previously observed, it was really only a matter of time. But at least for now, it seemed that they would be able to escort the Rohirrim back to the city without challenge.

  


The riders were now very close, and they would have easily closed the distance between the two groups had they maintained their gallop. But their eyes turned south and they checked their mounts, slowing them to a walk. With a silent curse, Arabano signaled his men to hurry, and he broke into a run. The returning Rohirrim were staring at the smoldering wreckage of the Portu tribe’s encampment! Arabano was close enough that he could see the surprise and horror in the faces of the Rohirrim, but from afar, others might interpret the behavior to be triumphant and mocking. And not all of the Haradrim had retreated back into their tents.

  


Apparently, the Rohirrim that raced alongside Arabano came to the same conclusion, for one of them began shouting to their kinsmen. " _Eos! Eos, kûlm! Fesanig!_ " 

  


Arabano did not understand these words as he was unfamiliar with Rohan’s native tongue, but whatever was said achieved the desired results. The riders reluctantly turned their eyes away from Portu’s camp and urged their horses into a trot. When they were close enough to the other group that they could speak without raising their voices, the Rohirrim dismounted and questions began to fly.

  


"Tell me this is not the work of Orthanc fire!" a rider exclaimed, his voice laced with both weariness and astonishment. He seemed to be the one in command, for at a signal from him, the rest of the group quieted. "Tell me that Saruman’s foul weapons have not worked their way into the desert!"

  


One of the Rohirrim stepped forward to answer him, but Arabano pushed him aside. These riders were entitled to explanations, but not here and not now. Arabano had questions of his own—such as why there were only five returning riders and not ten—but he could wait until the safety of camp was reached to ask after these things. "I fear that any discussion must be delayed," he said quickly as his men moved to surround the group. "We are in danger here. Come! We will provide you escort to your encampment."

  


There were some angry murmurs among the Rohirrim at these commands, and for a moment, Arabano feared that his assumption of authority might cost them all their lives. If it seemed to others that they were having a dispute, then the weakness would surely be exploited. But fortune was with them for a change, and the rider in charge took note of their surroundings with an experienced eye. "Lead on," he ordered, taking a firm hold of his horse’s halter as he swayed suddenly. The morning’s hurried ride beneath the sun seemed to be taking its toll. "We will follow and we will be quick."

  


Arabano nodded sharply, sparing one grateful look at this rider, and then he turned, snapping commands at his men. With that, they began to walk, their pace swift but not so swift as to seem like they were fleeing. Appearance counted for much in the deserts, and though haste was needed, Arabano was not so foolish as to rush them all into an early grave.

  


By the grace of the _Iluh_ , they reached the walls of Haradhur without incident, though certainly not without many dark and foreboding glares. Once within the city, their pace increased dramatically, for it was easy to weave in and out of the streets, passing all who might have glanced their way so quickly that they were not recognized. Arabano was even beginning to relax slightly as they neared the camp, something that immediately put him on his guard once he recognized that it was happening. Things had a tendency to spiral out of control when feelings of relief crept in, and Arabano quickly scanned the surrounding streets, half expecting to discover a horde of men waiting to attack.

  


Fortunately, he didn’t find his attacking horde. But he did see something that stopped him cold in his tracks.

  


One of the weary riders bumped into his back and stumbled away, cursing quietly. The horses snorted and some of them reared as they were also forced to stop. This caused the entire group to come to a halt, and as one, they turned to watch Arabano, who had more or less forgotten about the rest of them. His eyes were staring down a side alley, but when the others turned to look, they could see nothing.

  


"Honored one?" one of the Lotessa warriors prompted hesitantly.

  


"Take the Rohirrim and make for the camp," Arabano said quietly. "I shall join you there shortly. Also, send word to all of our men who are now searching the city for Fastahn. Have them also meet in the camp."

  


"What did you see?" a man from the Rohirrim asked.

  


"Something that needs investigating," Arabano answered, moving away from the group. "Go now. If any ask after my whereabouts, assure them that I will return soon."

  


"But—"

  


"Go!" Arabano commanded, turning and pinning the questioning tribesman with an intense gaze. "I will see you again shortly." And with that he hastened away, quickly turning a corner and vanishing into the winding maze of Haradhur’s twisting streets.

 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for _ú-glîr_

  


Eos! Eos, kûlm! Fesanig!—Eos! Eos, come! Hasten! (Rohirric)

 

  


 

  
__

Author’s Notes: Just a few quick notes. First of all, the list of tribes and people can be found at the end of this chapter. I have a feeling that some of you might be wanting it.

  


Next, for any who were wondering (which is probably none of you, but I have to put this in anyway) here is the origin for my version of Rohirric. Tolkien wanted to give Rohirric a rather archaic feel, so he derived much of it from Old English. However, Rohirric was not the predecessor of Westron, so I couldn’t just take words straight out of Old English because I’m using an English "translation" of Westron. It would feel wrong. Additionally, the development of Rohirric seems to have been strongly influenced by the Sindarin language. So I went back to the Old English, looked at the words and structure, and then made a fairly wild stab at what I thought the Rohirric language might have evolved into if Sindarin had had been a factor in its development. And I tried to keep an archaic and foreign feel to the thing while attempting to mirror the impression that Legolas had when he heard Rohirric. In the Two Towers, he describes the language like this: "It is like to this land itself; rich and rolling in part, and else hard and stern as the mountains. But I cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with the sadness of Mortal Men."

  


So there you have it. That’s where my version of Rohirric comes from. Perhaps an excessive amount of work and explanation for something that resulted in two little words, but I can be a little obsessive at times. And I wanted to cover my bases. Thanks for your indulgence!

  
**   
**

  
Character List   
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm** —Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) **  
Arnor** —Aragorn’s horse (OC) **  
Asbad** —Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) **  
Aulit** —Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) **  
Budari** —Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) **  
Dashnir** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul** —Legolas’s horse (OC) **  
Fastahn** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) **  
Garat** —Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (OC) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran** —Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen** —Tribal head of Warra (OC) **  
Khesva** —Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (OC) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) **  
Radarad** —Tribal head of Portu (OC) **  
Shade** —Eomer’s horse (OC) 

**  
Tribe List  
Gartabo**—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe  



	35. Fractals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a result of several remarks about the multitude of characters in this story (as well as the fact that I havent updated for a while because I had no access to the Internet) Ive included a new and updated character list at the beginning of this chapter. So if you warning a refresher course now, here you go. As a warning, you may need it for this chapter. Were about to blow everything wide open.
> 
>   
>  **Character List** (OC indicates Original Character)  
>  **Arabano(OC)** Second-in-command of Lotessa **  
> Aragorn** King of Gondor **  
> Arhelm(OC)** Captain of Rohans guard **  
> Arnor(OC)** Aragorns horse **  
> Asbad(OC)** Tribal head of Khurintu **  
> Aulit(OC)** Tribal head of Gartabo (Also charged with overseeing this year's Gathering)   
> **Bron(OC)** Member of the Portu tribe (Killed by Dashnir at Lake Supt) **  
> Budari(OC)** Tribal head of Lotessa **  
> Dashnir(OC)** Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe **  
> Eomer** King of Rohan **  
> Faensul(OC)** Legolass elven horse **  
> Fastahn(OC)** Member of Soltaris advisory council (Temporary ruler of Soltari in the wake of Khesva's death) **  
> Garat(OC)** Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (Killed by Legolas in a cave while waiting out a sandstorm) **  
> Gimli** Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
> Imhran(OC)** Captain of Gondors guard **  
> Imrahil** Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
> Joranen(OC)** Tribal head of Warra **  
> Khesva(OC)** Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (Killed by Orthanc Fire outside of Haradhur) **  
> Legolas** Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
> Mohart(OC)** Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (Inadvertantly poisoned by Imrahil at Dol Amroth, though he survived the encounter) **  
> Radarad(OC)** Tribal head of Portu **  
> Shade(OC)** Eomers horse
> 
>   
> **Tribe List  
>  Gartabo**Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
> Khurintu** Northern based warrior tribe **  
> Lotessa** Southern based warrior tribe **  
> Portu** Widespread raiding tribe **  
> Soltari** Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
> Warra** Northern based warrior tribe

__

Author’s Notes: As a result of several remarks about the multitude of characters in this story (as well as the fact that I haven’t updated for a while because I had no access to the Internet) I’ve included a new and updated character list at the beginning of this chapter. So if you warning a refresher course now, here you go. As a warning, you may need it for this chapter. We’re about to blow everything wide open.

  
**Character List** (OC indicates Original Character)  
 **Arabano(OC)** —Second-in-command of Lotessa **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm(OC)** —Captain of Rohan’s guard **  
Arnor(OC)** —Aragorn’s horse **  
Asbad(OC)** —Tribal head of Khurintu **  
Aulit(OC)** —Tribal head of Gartabo (Also charged with overseeing this year's Gathering)   
**Bron(OC)** —Member of the Portu tribe (Killed by Dashnir at Lake Supt) **  
Budari(OC)** —Tribal head of Lotessa **  
Dashnir(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul(OC)** —Legolas’s elven horse **  
Fastahn(OC)** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (Temporary ruler of Soltari in the wake of Khesva's death) **  
Garat(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (Killed by Legolas in a cave while waiting out a sandstorm) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran(OC)** —Captain of Gondor’s guard **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen(OC)** —Tribal head of Warra **  
Khesva(OC)** —Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (Killed by Orthanc Fire outside of Haradhur) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (Inadvertantly poisoned by Imrahil at Dol Amroth, though he survived the encounter) **  
Radarad(OC)** —Tribal head of Portu **  
Shade(OC)** —Eomer’s horse

  
**Tribe List  
Gartabo**—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe  
 ****

  
  


Imrahil, ruler of the lush, coastal province of Belfalas, sat in a small and stifling tent three days into the arid deserts of Harad. Sharing both Imrahil’s misery and Imrahil’s tent was an unconscious Rohirrim captain who—with four other riders—had ridden a stumbling horse into camp while trailing members of what had appeared to be the Khurintu tribe. Upon arriving, the Khurintu had scattered and the Rohirrim had collapsed, leaving the men of Dol Amroth to hastily drag them in out of the burning sun. To make the situation more bizarre, Imrahil had been surprised by the appearance of Rohan’s riders but not by the appearance of Khurintu. He had anticipated this development since the unanticipated discovery of corsairs camping down the lakeshore, a discover which in turn had alerted him to a military alliance between Khurintu and Umbar that allowed both parties to create Orthanc Fire. Additionally, the corsairs were apparently awaiting the arrival of a captive elf that was to be supplied by the Khurintu tribe.  
 __

And this morning has only begun, Imrahil sighed wearily. _If nothing else, the day promises to be interesting.  
_

The sheer volume of information that had assaulted Imrahil in the past few hours was confounding, and he was desperately trying to sort through the facts in order to form a coherent picture that would guide his next actions. But the prince’s normally sharp mind seemed as lifeless and blank as the endless sands that surrounded Lake Nurnein. He was tired, for dark dreams had prevented him from finding true rest during the previous day. And the environment was certainly not helping. Imrahil’s light tunic was soaked with sweat, a rare experience as the faint echoes of a distant elven heritage usually guarded against perspiration. The complete absence of humidity burned his lungs and seared his throat. He yearned for water, but the liquid in his water skins was unpleasantly warm and only seemed to encourage his thirst.  
 __

Perhaps I should seek sleep, Imrahil thought, running the back of his hand across a brow that dripped with sweat. _I cannot seem to think clearly. Mayhap rest will clear my mind.  
_

But even as he considered this idea, Imrahil discarded it. Before the arrival of the Rohirrim, he had tried to sleep and failed. He would not sleep now. Imrahil was a veteran soldier of many campaigns and had learned to rest whenever possible, but he was also a scholar and a gifted strategist. Sleep was valuable but so was information, and at the moment, Imrahil valued the latter over the former. Earlier, he had known nothing. His only clues had been vague dreams and dark suspicions. Now it seemed as though plans were being handed to him, but it was happening too quickly for him to make sense of it. And sense was what was needed, for a tingling itch of foreboding told him that time was running out.  


So he sat wearily in his tent with his eyes fixed upon Arhelm, the Rohirrim captain who had swooned and fallen from the back of his gelding upon reaching Lake Nurnein. And while Imrahil waited for Arhelm to show signs of stirring, he tried to piece together what he knew so far.  


As inconceivable as it seemed, Umbar had become involved in the affairs of the Haradrim. Imrahil could not quite fathom how this was possible, especially since the corsairs were intensely scornful of anyone who did not live on or near the sea. They deemed that the open waters could be likened to a refiner’s fire that in turn created a strong and hardy people. Thus they tended to downplay the abilities of the Haradrim, for those in the desert had no wild, untamed seas to mold them into true warriors. Ironically, the Haradrim were equally scornful of anyone who did not live in or near the desert—giving the reason that the desert’s heat was more akin to the refiner’s fire than any glorified puddle—and so Imrahil was baffled as to how these two groups had formed an alliance. Nevertheless, it seemed an agreement of sorts had been forged, but as for the exact terms of this agreement…  


Imrahil shook his head and pushed away the frustration that was beginning to consume him. In days past, he had been renowned for an almost elven patience that occasionally managed to wear away even Denethor’s stubborn reticence. But that patience seemed to have vanished in the heat, and Imrahil was hard-pressed to settle his mind. Some of his earlier anxiety had been quelled by the arrival of the Rohirrim, for familiar faces had lightened his heart considerably. But the restlessness that had formed during the night’s ride was returning in force as he pondered the situation. Imrahil enjoyed a good puzzle, but when time was slipping away and lives hung in the balance, he preferred to have the puzzle completed and the answers at hand. Such was not the case here.  
 __

Concentrate, he told himself. _Breathe slowly and concentrate. You can do naught while the sun is overhead and neither can your opponents. Use this time wisely. It may be all the time you are given before you must act._ Closing his eyes, Imrahil opened fists he did not remember clenching and firmly directed his mind back to the matter of the unusual alliance.  


The only reason for Harad and Umbar to join together would be that each had something the other wanted and could not get by other means. It seemed fairly obvious that the wants in this case were charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur. Also obvious was the conclusion that both groups were making Orthanc Fire, a deduction backed by the tidings that Mohart’s kinsmen had given. And the shared weapon had in turn led to a military alliance that desired the subjugation of Gondor.  


But none of that did Imrahil any good at the moment. With the exception of Umbar’s involvement, the prince might have guessed all of this on his own. Now came the hart part: details. Imrahil needed to know why the corsairs had been expecting an elf to arrive with Khurintu. He needed to know what had become of King Elessar and his company. He needed to know how far along in their plans Khurintu had gone. He needed to know if any other tribes were involved in these plans. He needed to know why five riders of Rohan on the verge of collapse were chasing an equally weary group of Khurintu tribesmen across the desert. And above all, he needed to know times and places. He needed to know when and where the next stroke would fall.  


Some details Imrahil had already. An assault on Minas Tirith was planned. Before this happened, Ithilien was to be neutralized using a weapon that the corsairs had developed specifically for the elves. This weapon was untested, though, and Umbar was wary of using it. This indicated that the weapon’s success was highly questionable, for the corsairs did not usually shy away from risks. And that, in turn, explained their eagerness for a test subject: an elf.  


But it did not explain how an elf—presumably Legolas—had fallen into Khurintu’s hands. Nor did it explain what had happened to that elf’s party. And as for what other tribes might be involved or whether or not the plans had progressed so far that there was no stopping them… Imrahil resisted the urge to shake his head in frustration. One reaction would lead to another, and before he knew it, he would find himself pacing the length of the tent.  


A cynical voice in the back of his head noted that his guards would probably be greatly entertained if he did succumb to pacing. For some reason unfathomable to Imrahil, the men of Dol Amroth seemed to find it vastly amusing when their prince showed hints of impatience. Faramir also seemed to find Imrahil’s occasional bouts of haste to be decidedly humorous. When questioned, Faramir could not truly explain his mirth except to say that Imrahil’s look of frustration was…interesting. Faramir’s advice to his uncle was that Imrahil should maintain his stoic composure—something that the prince of Dol Amroth did quite well—and leave the impatient expressions to those that could make them without looking like a drowning troll.  
 __

A drowning troll indeed! Imrahil thought with a touch of indignation. _When has Faramir ever had occasion to see a drowning troll? The boy would not know a drowning troll from a charging mûmak._ Absently wiping the perspiration from his brow, Imrahil shook his head and gave a quiet snort of laughter. _I must be in great need of both sleep and water if my mind has strayed to conversations regarding drowning trolls._ He began debating about whether or not drinking some of his hot, rationed water would make things better or worse, but he was interrupted by a low moan from the corner of the tent.  


His mind immediately snapping to attention, Imrahil hastened to Arhelm’s side, hopeful that the rider was waking. And for once, the Valar were merciful. It seemed that Arhelm was indeed waking, and Imrahil quickly seized a water skin should it be desired. The parched riders had swallowed water even in their unconscious states, but doubtless they would be thirsty again when they woke. _Not that this warm water will do much for their thirst_ , Imrahil’s cynical side commented. Still, the gesture might be appreciated.  


Wetting a cloth and rubbing it across Arhelm’s brow, Imrahil called to the man, anxious to add speed to the waking process. "Arhelm? Arhelm, can you speak?"  


Silence was his initial reply and Imrahil held his breath as despair began to creep into his heart, but then Arhelm stirred and moaned again, his eyelids fluttering slightly.  


"Arhelm, return to us," Imrahil encouraged. "There are things I must know, and only you can give me answers."  


It seemed to Imrahil that Arhelm was now considering the idea of waking and finding it to be a prospect he did not appreciate. His struggles died away slightly and his breathing deepened as he began to slide back into the cool abyss of unconsciousness.  


"Nay, you cannot so lightly abandon your duties!" Imrahil pressed, seizing Arhelm’s hand and holding it tightly. "Unless my guess is far astray, your king is in dire need. Come now. Show me the loyalty of the Rohirrim. Wake for your king!"  


That produced results.  


Arhelm stiffened, his muscles tensing and his brow furrowing. His chest heaved with exertion, and he seemed to be mustering energy for some great endeavor or another. Imrahil suspected that Arhelm was attempting to open his eyes. Having been knocked unconscious several times himself, Imrahil knew just how difficult it could be to force open reluctant eyelids. And as the prince of Dol Amroth continued to watch his companion, his guess was validated. With a groan of effort and a show of strength, Arhelm tensed and then slowly opened his eyes, struggling with every arduous step of the process.  


"Haedin?" he whispered.  


Imrahil frowned. "Haedin?" he repeated, hoping for an explanation while thoughts and fears rushed through his mind. Was this the name of the man who had brought harm to his king? Was this some form of code that another of the Rohirrim might understand? Was the captain delirious and mistaking Imrahil for someone else?  


"My horse," Arhelm hissed, his voice harsh and raspy. "Is he—"  


"Your horse has been cared for," Imrahil answered, shaking his head with a slight smile of exasperation. He should have realized that Arhelm’s first thought would be his gelding. Their overall reputation might say otherwise, but in this and many other things, the Rohirrim were really quite predictable. "He is well and resting," Imrahil continued. "We ensured that he received water."  


"Thank you," the rider sighed, his eyes closing with relief. Then his brow creased and he forced his eyes open again, only now seeming to realize who it was that kept him company. "Prince Imrahil?" Arhelm’s jaw clenched and he lifted his head slightly as though attempting to rise. "I…I thought you were a dream, my lord."  


"Nay, I am no dream," Imrahil answered, pressing Arhelm back and handing him the water skin. "And you are very much awake, my friend. Gently," he cautioned when Arhelm began gulping water in earnest, apparently heedless of its temperature. "Too much too quickly will do you no good."  


Arhelm nodded with reluctant obedience and lowered the water skin. Turning his eyes back to Imrahil, he frowned and shook his head. "Forgive me, my lord, but…how did you come to be in the desert? Yours was not a face we expected to see."  


"My reasons for being here can wait," Imrahil said. "They are not as important as the answers that you can give me, for it seems we have been handed a pretty puzzle. Strange rumors reached our ears this morning. Where is your king? And where is King Elessar?"  


Panic surged through Arhelm’s pale face and he struggled upwards. "Why? What tidings have come, my lord?"  


Somewhat taken aback by this, Imrahil frowned and pushed the man back down. "We are not sure of how to interpret the tidings. It was hoped that you could aid us. Do you not know where your king is?"  


"Insofar as I know, my king is yet at Haradhur. Have you heard differently, Prince Imrahil?"  


"And what of King Elessar?" Imrahil pressed, ignoring Arhelm’s question for the moment. "Was he with Eomer?"  


Arhelm nodded. "Yes, my lord. But my party and I left Haradhur last night as evening fell. We do not know what has transpired since then. If you know something, my lord, then I beg you to tell me what has happened!"  


"I do not _know_ much," Imrahil answered, his earlier frustrations returning. "But I _suspect_ that something has happened. Recent conversations have led me to believe that Lord Legolas may be a prisoner. But I have heard nothing that reveals the fate of those who were with him."  


"In this, at least, I can aid you," Arhelm said, his face growing dark. "Two nights ago, the guards around our camp were murdered. Lord Gimli’s axe and Lord Legolas’s knife were discovered in their tent, but their bodies were never found. We assumed that they had been taken captive."  


Imrahil blinked. "Both of them?"  


Arhelm nodded, licking his dry lips and taking another sip from the water skin. "Last night, my king sent ten riders in pursuit of the Khurintu tribe, for we suspect that they were the culprits. My men and I were part of that company, but we separated when the trail seemed to split. I do not know if Eos and his group were successful, but it appears now that my men and I were not."  


"Two nights ago," Imrahil murmured, his mind beginning to whirl as he called forth every rumor he had heard between now and the time he had left Lake Supt. "Do you know how or why they were taken, Arhelm?"  


"Nay, I do not, my lord," Arhelm said, an unspoken apology contained within his voice. "But I do know that Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas were in danger of being apprehended by other tribes before Khurintu took them. They were sent to join our scouting parties in the desert for the city had become dangerous. But they never arrived, and we could not look for them because Haradhur was then attacked."  


"And this attack was made with Orthanc Fire?" Imrahil guessed.  


Arhelm’s eyes widened. "Orthanc Fire? Nay, our attackers were raiders. What is this of Orthanc Fire?"  


"Word reached us this morning that a weapon similar to Orthanc Fire had been used in the desert. I assumed you would know of this."  


"I have not seen Orthanc Fire since the Battle of Helm’s Deep," Arhelm said. "By the blood of Eorl…" The man trailed off, his face darkening as memories of the hated weapon rose to the surface of his mind. "Prince Imrahil, do you know if my king—"  


"I know little more than what I just told you," Imrahil answered, rubbing his brow and struggling to make sense of this. Was it possible that Mohart’s contacts had been wrong? Perhaps his suspicions about the ingredients were off.  


"If Orthanc Fire has been used, then—"  


"Then we can do nothing here but put together what we know and what we suspect," Imrahil interrupted, focusing on something that Arhelm had said earlier. "You spoke of raiders. What raiders would attack Haradhur in the middle of the Gathering?"  


His eyes still showed fear for Eomer, but to his credit, Arhelm put aside this worry and concentrated on Imrahil’s question. "We have no proof, but we believe that the raiders were of the Portu tribe."  


"The Portu tribe?" Imrahil repeated incredulously. "Surely you are mistaken. They may be raiders, but they are not warriors. It is not their nature to attack even an armed camp, much less a fortified city. And they would never presume to attack during the Gathering!"  


"We also found it strange, my lord, but we are fairly certain of our suspicions. Nor do we believe it to be the first time that Portu attacked our position, for we were similarly beset at Lake Supt on our first night in the desert. We believe they were ordered to test us. And some suspect that their representative, Bron, was murdered the next evening to prevent us from learning of this."  
 __

Bron? Murdered? Varda’s stars, what is happening in this land?! His mind now spinning wildly, Imrahil shook his head and closed his eyes. "Let us start at the beginning. Tell me everything that transpired beginning with the night you left Dol Amroth. And relate every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem."  


"My lord, such a tale could consume the rest of the day."  


"Then the day shall be consumed," Imrahil snapped, the heat and frustration finally wearing through his patience. "But I will not be taken unawares, and I will not let fall any chance to save my king. Begin, Arhelm! Time marches on, and I will have my answers now!"  


* * * *  


For most of his adult life, Fastahn had served in the ruling and advisory councils of the Soltari tribe. And as such, life within the winding mazes of Harad’s cities was more familiar to him than life upon the scorching desert sand. But as he hastened through the twisting labyrinth of buildings and cross streets, Fastahn began to long for the openness of the land beyond the city walls. Haradhur’s cramped, jumbled quarters reminded him all too well of the contorted web of disaster into which he’d plunged his tribe. A disaster largely of his own making.  


The man walking beside him only served as a further reminder of the calamity that Fastahn had brought about. Radarad, leader of the Portu tribe, walked with a pronounced limp, a result of the explosions that had decimated his camp. His scarves were drawn snugly over his head, hiding the burns and the vicious cuts. The only visible part of his face were his eyes, black with rolling waves of anger and loathing.  


It had taken quite a bit of coaxing on Fastahn’s part to convince Radarad to make this trip. Room had been made in Haradhur for the raiding tribe, but the survivors were confused and disoriented. They were filled with rage that could not be loosed for fear of harming their families far away. Radarad had been hesitant to leave his kin in such a state, and Fastahn could not blame him. He had left his own tribe in turmoil without explanation or apology. But if he was to make this right, he had to act and he had to act now. Thus his years of training as a leader and a diplomat had gone into every persuasive argument he could think of, and in the end, he had convinced a very reluctant Radarad to accompany him.  
 __

But compared to what I must do next, convincing Radarad was as simple as finding sand, Fastahn sighed. _Still, I suppose that in light of my actions, the difficult road is the only course now available.  
_

His actions. It had been the greatest risk Fastahn had ever taken, and it had been a risk he’d lost. At the time he had deemed it to be absolutely necessary. The tribal leaders had left him no choice. Soltari was going to sit quietly and watch as the Lotessa tribe battled Khurintu with only Gondor and Rohan as allies. It had been a decision debated at great length with Fastahn and a few others pressing Khesva to align against Dashnir and Asbad. They were not a military tribe, but neither were they unskilled in battle. They had not the talent that warrior tribes possessed, but they could still be an asset upon the field of war. They should have extended an offer of aid to Lotessa. They should have stood against Khurintu and helped maintain the balance of power in the desert. But they had not. Khesva had ruled against such a strong departure from their traditionally neutral position. He believed they had jeopardized their neutrality enough already.  
 __

But how can one claim to walk a middle line when there ceases to be a middle? Fastahn demanded, attempting to rationalize his actions. _Lotessa’s defeat would have enslaved us to Khurintu. There would have been no balancing power to challenge them and thus there would have been no position of neutrality for us to assume. There would have been only servitude. Blood of the sand, I had to make them see! I had to turn them against Khurintu and to do that I had to force Khurintu’s hand! I had no other choice!  
_

But now most of the Soltari tribe was dead. His gamble had backfired, and drastically so. Soltari would not rise to Lotessa’s aid in retaliation for Khurintu’s attack. Soltari would not rise anywhere! Most of the tribe’s leaders were now dead. Those few that had survived were either grievously injured or mentally traumatized. None could stand with Lotessa. And should Fastahn send for more of his tribe, it would take several days for the message to even reach Soltari’s settlements to the south.  
 __

I was so blinded by the past! Fastahn wailed, still attempting to rationalize. _I never expected Khurintu to retaliate as they did. They have always planned their moves well in advance! My actions should not have made us a target on the same level as Lotessa and Portu!  
_

Stifling a groan, Fastahn glanced at his companion and bit back a wail of grief and rage. Such emotions had no place here. All speculations about what should and should not have happened were moot at this point. The damage had been done, and Soltari’s ruling council lay dead. For all intents and purposes, Fastahn was currently the highest ranking Soltari tribe member at the Gathering, which made him the de facto leader. And as leader, it was his duty to see to the welfare of his tribe. But if his final efforts came to naught, what then? Should he stay in Haradhur and witness the triumph of the Khurintu tribe? Should he flee to his own tribe and warn them of what was coming? Should they abandon their settlements and journey east, hoping for sanctuary in the jungles?  
 __

Nay, I will not consider it, he suddenly decided. _I shall not think on what will happen should I fail today, for if I fail then my tribe and my kinsmen are lost. Success this day is our last best chance, and even then, it is no guarantee. Khurintu will come with all its forces. Lotessa is now depleted, Portu has been attacked as well, and Gondor, Rohan, and Warra combined have not enough to offer Khurintu much in the way of challenge should Khurintu bring the bulk of its forces. But there is no other choice. Not anymore.  
_

"When shall these wanderings cease?"  


The gravely voice of Radarad startled Fastahn out of his despairing thoughts and he hurriedly composed himself. The Portu tribe held naught more than contempt for the agricultural tribes, and if he was to convince Radarad to listen to what he had to say, then Fastahn had to appear strong. He had to act as though he was confident in his abilities, something that Fastahn was usually able to do with ease. But his successive failures and the death of his kin had shaken him badly. And when coupled with everything that could go wrong with the alliance that he intended to forge…  


"Fastahn!"  


"Soon, honored one," Fastahn said, forcing his voice to be firm and calm. "We shall reach our destination soon."  


"My patience runs thin today."  


"Then I suggest you control your temper wisely, for if things continue unchecked, today may well be the last day you ever see."  


Before he knew what was happening, Fastahn suddenly found himself pressed firmly against a wall with the sharp point of a knife digging into the skin of his neck. "If that was threat, then I suggest you reconsider your words," Radarad hissed. "Or it will be the last day _you_ ever see."  


"Nay, not a threat!" Fastahn choked out, his hands locking around Radarad’s forearms as he struggled vainly to push the stronger man away. "A warning of things to come beyond my control. I wish to aid you!"  


"And what aid could the Soltari tribe possibly offer?"  


Fastahn tipped his head back, feeling the knife dig even deeper. "As I…told you before," he wheezed, "what I have…to say must be…revealed in the presence of another!"  


The world seemed to hold its breath for a long moment, and then something deep within Radarad’s eyes flickered. A slight breeze ruffled the scarves around his face and he stepped back, abruptly releasing his hold on Fastahn’s neck and slipping his knife back into the folds of his robes. "If I do not find your words worth my while, I will not hesitate to finish what I just began," Radarad warned.  


Fastahn clutched at his throat, gasping for breath and deciding that projecting an air of indifference might have been a bad decision. Given the success of his other recent decisions, though, Fastahn could not say that he was truly surprised. "I promise you, honored one, that you will be most interested to hear my words," he assured Radarad.  


"We will see."  


Deciding that now would be a good time to continue their journey, Fastahn clenched his teeth and resumed walking. Radarad fell into step beside him and oppressive silence joined them as a third companion. Still, Fastahn felt that oppressive silence was better than death at the hands of Radarad’s knife, so he did not complain.  


Turning a few more corners and feeling Radarad’s impatience looming over his head like the hand of the Destroyer ready to descend, Fastahn sighed with relief when their destination came into view. Eager to escape the silent streets, he hastened forward to the low building that he had chosen as a meeting place. Somewhat removed from the main wells of the city and having no well of its own, very few people used this building as a shelter during the day. At night it was a marketplace, but beneath the heat of the sun it only provided shade for abandoned stands and carts. Fastahn felt that they would not be disturbed here, and if any should happen across them, they would think twice before interrupting. Radarad was considered a powerful leader by those who did not follow politics closely, and Fastahn was also seen as one who wielded clout. Additionally, the man they were to meet was greatly feared, and Fastahn felt that these combined factors would allow them to speak freely without disruptions from others.  


"We are here, then?" Radarad questioned.  


"Yes," Fastahn answered, moving beneath a wide archway and under a broad cloth pavilion that sat before the entrance to the main building. "Come. I do not know if the other member of our party is present, but it would not do to keep him waiting if he has arrived."  


"It does not sit well with me that you have yet to reveal his name."  


Fastahn turned to discover that Radarad had slowed his pace and was now eyeing the doorway to the dark building with no small amount of suspicion. "If it eases your mind, honored one, I can tell you that he does not know your name," Fastahn said.  


"Then we are both ignorant and you assume power."  


Cursing both himself and the paranoia of warrior tribes—though given the night’s events, paranoia was certainly a justified reaction—Fastahn reached into his robe, drew his knife, and extended its hilt to Radarad. "I give to you my weapon and a request. If what you hear this day does not satisfy you concerning my intentions, kill me with my own blade. I care naught for dishonor and tribe, nor will any in the days ahead if we cannot avert what will happen."  


Radarad was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes narrowed in thought. At length, he took the knife and concealed it within his own robes. "Let us go," he said quietly.  


Grateful that his act of submission had momentarily placated Radarad, Fastahn moved forward quickly before the other could entertain any more doubts. Plunging into the darkness of the clay building, he blinked his eyes rapidly, waiting for them to adjust to the dim light. He heard Radarad’s steps as the other joined him, and then his clearing vision caught sight of a shadow detaching itself from one of the corners.  


"I had begun to wonder if you would come."  


Radarad stiffened and Fastahn suddenly felt the point of his knife against his back along with a steel grip upon his shoulder. "Tell me that _he_ is not the reason you brought me to this place!" the raider chieftain hissed sharply.  


Walking until he was several feet away from the pair, the leader of the Warra tribe studied Radarad and Fastahn before sniffing and shaking his head. "I see nothing of importance here," Joranen said.  


Radarad hissed with indignation, and Fastahn felt the knife waver slightly as anger for the other tribe leader distracted his captor. Taking advantage of this, Fastahn lurched forward, breaking the hold on his shoulder and staggering away before Radarad could strike.  


Joranen took a precautionary step back and jerked his head, at which point, more shadows moved away from the walls. Fastahn whipped around as guards from the Warra tribe stepped in front of the doorway and the windows effectively cutting off any chance of escape. "We agreed to meet alone!" Fastahn accused, turning back to Joranen.  


" _You_ agreed," Joranen said quietly. "I merely consented to attend."  


"So it comes to this," Radarad spat, leveling a dark glare at Fastahn before drawing himself up to face Joranen. "It is as I suspect. You truly have no honor."  


It was the wrong thing to say. The ring of metal heralded the appearance of Joranen’s sword, and he advanced quickly upon Radarad, his eyes crackling with anger. "On what basis do you challenge my honor?"  


"The Portu tribe fulfilled our part of the arrangement!" Radarad shouted, sheathing his knife and drawing his own sword. "We did all that you asked and more, yet here you trap me, having already destroyed much of my tribe. Shall you next enslave our women and children, or shall you merely continue to starve them in the desert?"  


The point of Joranen’s sword did not waver, but a look of confusion crossed his face and he blinked. "It seems that grief and injuries have stolen your reason, Radarad," he said at length. "Stand down and I may forget your words to me."  


"You deny your actions?!" Radarad shouted, eyes blazing. "Atop your previous dishonor, you would deny that—"  


"Enough!" Fastahn interrupted loudly, leaping between the two. It was a perilous move, but he had expected this development and was prepared. "Please, honored ones, allow me to explain why I have brought you here ere any hasty actions can be taken! Both the Portu tribe and the Warra tribe have been unfairly used by others, and I mean to reveal the plots and steps that have been taken against you."  


"Your words are madness," Radarad snapped. "The Warra tribe has long deprived our women and children of water and food. Now they seek to destroy us all."  


"Nay, in that belief you are wrong!" Fastahn answered, his eyes pleading with Radarad to listen. "It was not the Warra tribe but a rebellion beneath the direction of Garat who worked in an alliance with Asbad and the Khurintu tribe!"  


A sharp prod against his spine took Fastahn’s breath away, and he turned from Radarad to find himself looking into the angry eyes of Joranen. "You would dishonor the dead with baseless accusations?" Joranen demanded. "Garat was loyal to me and—"  


"Garat had planned to murder you once Khurintu’s plans came to fruition!" Fastahn interrupted, forcing himself to hold completely still even as Joranen’s sword pressed more firmly against him. "Honored one, you were naught more than a lackey to him! And you remain as such to the Khurintu tribe. They are using your own hawks to relay orders to your warriors in the north!"  


"Interesting."  


Everyone—Warra guards included—froze at this new voice. As one, all turned toward the door where a man wearing the colors and insignia of the Lotessa tribe stood just beyond the entryway.  


"This does not concern you, Arabano," Radarad warned.  


"On the contrary, honored one, if what I suspect is true, this meeting is vital to the continued existence of my own tribe," Arabano answered. He stepped forward, his eyes questioning, and after a moment of hesitation Joranen nodded to the guards, who stepped aside to allow Arabano passage.  


"What do you know of this?" Joranen asked.  


"Less than what I would like, honored one," Arabano said, "but I would fain hear more of Fastahn’s words. The little I heard earlier intrigues me greatly. And when he is finished, perhaps I may add my own observations, for it seems that we have all been greatly deceived."  


Embers of hope flared to life in Fastahn’s heart and his glance darted back and forth between Joranen and Radarad. He had not thought to bring Lotessa into this so soon, for in Lotessa’s eyes, he was probably a primary suspect. But it seemed that Arabano had seen beyond this, and with his help, the Khurintu tribe might yet be stopped.  


The tip of the sword suddenly withdrew from Fastahn’s side and Joranen took a step back. "I will listen," he said. His eyes were still dark with anger, but confusion was there as well and the anger could be redirected.  


"As will I," Radarad agreed, though he continued to throw suspicious looks in the direction of the Warra guards who still blocked the exits.  


A breath he did not know he had been holding escaped Fastahn, and he hurried to disguise this moment of weakness. Drawing himself up, he moved so that he could watch the faces of all involved, and as he did so, he noticed that his own hope was reflected in the shrewd eyes of Lotessa’s second-in-command.  


"Speak," Arabano said, his tone holding both a command and a note of encouragement. "Tell us what you know, and hold nothing back. That which was conceived in darkness must now face the harsh light of day."  


Fastahn closed his eyes for a moment, preparing himself. If he was to convince Joranen and Radarad that what he spoke was truth, he would have to reveal the entire story. He would have to speak of the treacherous actions he’d taken against his own tribe. But there was no other way and time was now very short. He had chosen this path. He now had to face the consequences.  


Taking a deep breath, Fastahn opened his eyes and began.  


* * * *  


Contrary to a popular belief held by most of Gondor’s subjects as well as many of the younger soldiers outside of Minas Tirith, Aragorn was not always right.  


Eomer would concede that Aragorn was _usually_ right, sometimes maddeningly so. But the king of Rohan firmly believed that no one—not even the heir of Isildur—had perfect judgement. The Rohirrim’s almost blind trust of Gríma when he became Theoden’s advisor was proof enough of that, and Eomer had vowed that Wormtongue’s deception would remain a singular event. Consequently, he now guarded his loyalty and trust with great reservations, and because of this, he was able to take a good step back from the situation and decide that Aragorn had taken a complete leave of his senses.  


"You want to set an ambush for the Khurintu tribe outside the walls of Haradhur?"  


Aragorn nodded and then inhaled sharply, his right hand flying up to clutch at his bandaged brow. "Yes," he hissed, his eyes shutting as Eomer gently prodded his swollen left wrist.  


Alone for the moment in a dark corner of the building that now held the bulk of their forces, Eomer was attempting to determine whether or not Aragorn had broken his wrist during the explosion that had decimated the Lotessa camp. Unfortunately, the swelling had still not subsided enough for either king to accurately judge if the wrist had sustained a break or a sprain, and at Aragorn’s insistence, Eomer was now feeling the joint for splinters. Possibly as a means to take his mind off the pain, Aragorn had begun to talk about their next move, at which point the king of Rohan had decided that the injuries and the heat were beginning to wear on Aragorn’s mind.  


"By your own reasoning, Asbad and Dashnir shall bring with them most of their tribe when they descend upon Haradhur," Eomer stated, unwrapping Aragorn’s splinted forearm so as to better examine the wrist. "We do not have the numbers to withstand them."  


"We will have Lotessa with us."  


"Most of Lotessa is in no condition to ride to battle."  


"But they will ride, nonetheless. Their honor demands it."  


Eomer pressed his lips together and shook his head, which was thankfully not throbbing quite as much as it had been before. He had to admit that there were definitely merits to Aragorn’s plan, but half of the Rohirrim force had yet to return from the desert and most of Lotessa had been decimated by Orthanc Fire. Their forces were sorely depleted. An ambush the likes of which Aragorn sought to devise required that they separate their men. They simply did not have the numbers to do that. "While I respect the need to uphold honor, Aragorn, I also know that honor alone will not bring victory. We are too few to split our forces, even with Lotessa’s aid. We need more men for an ambush."  


"We need more men if we are to do anything about Khurintu!" Aragorn snapped. "There are not enough of us to withstand a siege in the city, for were we to barricade ourselves in, the rest of the tribes here would turn against us. And Khurintu would easily surround us if we rode out to meet them in the open desert. Nay, Eomer. An ambush just outside the walls is the only option with any hope of success."  


"We would last longer in a siege," Eomer argued.  


"But in the end, we would be defeated," the king of Gondor returned, flinching slightly as Eomer continued to probe his wrist. "And the residents of Haradhur would suffer greatly in a war that is not of their making."  


"Then if you seek to hasten our end, why not ride out into the desert and spare Haradhur all of the battle?" Eomer demanded. "That seems a wiser course in my eyes. My men and I are more accustomed to such battles. We may stand a better chance if we ride upon the open sand."  


"No. Whatever Khurintu’s final goal may be, we cannot forget that we are not the only players in this game," Aragorn said, flinching once again under Eomer’s touch. "Legolas and Gimli have yet to be found. They are needed for something, and I suspect a demonstration of sorts is planned, possibly for the purpose of consolidating power. If we ride out and meet Khurintu, they will see us coming and either slay their prisoners or send them away with a detachment. If we allow Khurintu to come near the city while we wait in ambush, we may have a chance to free our friends in a surprise attack. Additionally, there is Umbar’s possible connection to be considered. If we barricade ourselves within the city, it will be difficult to send any messengers away. It will also be difficult to send messengers if we ride out to meet Khurintu, for we will not follow a path with which the men are familiar. But if we wait outside of Khurintu, the road north will not be blocked and if the battle goes ill then the survivors can retreat on a known path for home."  


Eomer frowned darkly, but he did not take his eyes from Aragorn’s wrist. He had discovered a lump that was either splintered bone or additional swelling. "Let us suppose that you are right," he said at length, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the wounded joint. "Let us suppose that Gimli and Legolas are being brought to Haradhur. And let us suppose that a surprise attack will manage to free them. What then? Are we to liberate them only to have them perish with us?"  


"There is a chance of success," Aragorn insisted. "There is a chance that some will survive."  


Glancing up at his friend, Eomer noted that Aragorn’s face had gone white and that his eyes were sealed shut. " _Estel_ means hope, does it not? The elves named you well. Perhaps they named you too well."  


His jaw set, Aragorn opened eyes that were dark with pain and fixed a stern glare upon Eomer. "And what would you have us do, king of the Mark? Have you better suggestions to offer?"  


"We send riders back to our own lands the moment the sun sets and we stay hidden within the city," Eomer answered.  


Aragorn frowned. "That is not how the Rohirrim do battle. You meet your foes boldly upon the plains."  


"We also retreat when overwhelmed. We are, after all, the people who built Helm’s Deep." Eomer sighed and looked back down at Aragorn’s wrist. "It is still too swollen to be certain," he said. "And this bump is not hard enough to be bone. I cannot tell if this is a break or not. But even if the wrist is not broken, it is badly sprained." Rohan’s king eyed his fellow king speculatively. "As you are a healer, it should not be necessary for me to say that this wrist should not be used in the immediate future. But I think I will say it anyway."  


"And as a healer, I will agree with you," Aragorn sighed. "But as a king, I am obliged to look first to my country and my people."  


"Then let us prepare for a siege," Eomer argued. "Send riders to warn Faramir and Imrahil of what has befallen and recover while we wait for our enemy to come."  


"It will not take the enemy long to come, for Haradhur will turn against us, as I said before," Aragorn answered. "And though you can boast of the greatness of Helm’s Deep, Erkenbrand and his men are the only Rohirrim who seem to know how to make use of a fortress. The rest of you are essentially lost in a siege. Nay, Eomer. Time is not a luxury we have. We cannot afford to let Khurintu come to us. We must meet them, and we must meet them on our own terms. If we stage an ambush, we can set the scene before they arrive."  


"Aragorn, this is folly!" Eomer hissed. "We have not the numbers for…" He suddenly trailed off, his sharp hearing catching a stir on the other side of the building.  


"Numbers will be a problem no matter what plan we adopt," Aragorn said.  


Eomer frowned and straightened, his eyes locking onto an area where part of the building had been knocked out to create a passage into a neighboring building. The disturbance seemed to be coming from there.  


"Furthermore, if we set an ambush, we can give the illusion of many men, which may confuse Khurintu and buy us time."  


Shaking his head slightly, Eomer looked back at Aragorn and abruptly realized that the other had yet to notice the growing commotion. _His hearing has been damaged_ , Eomer realized with a flash of panic. _Eorl’s blood, the signs were there. I should have seen this ere now!_ "I believe we are about to receive visitors," he said slowly, watching closely for Aragorn’s reaction.  


Aragorn blinked and turned his head, looking in the direction that Eomer indicated. A frown momentarily settled upon his face before it vanished quickly, leaving his expression blank. "Indeed? Let us go and greet them."  


"Aragorn…"  


"Come," Aragorn said, rising swiftly. An involuntary hiss followed this movement and Eomer moved forward to support his friend, earning him a dark glare from the king of Gondor.  


"Easy," Eomer cautioned, trying valiantly to ignore a look that might have unnerved even Sauron. "Your injuries are catching up with you. If you wish it, I will see what is happening and—"  


"We will go together," Aragorn said sharply, shrugging off Eomer’s hold and moving forward somewhat awkwardly. With a resigned sigh and a quiet oath about stubborn kings, Eomer shook his head and followed.  


"Honored Eomer!" a voice called out, and Eomer suddenly discovered that Budari had joined them. "It would seem that some of your men have returned."  


Several thoughts flew through Eomer’s mind, but one settled heavily. " _Some_?" he questioned.  


"Half," Aragorn said, his eyes looking at the dusty Rohirrim who were now being ushered into the building and given water. "Half have returned."  


Now with a quiet oath directed toward his own people, Eomer pushed his way past Aragorn and came face to face with Eos, who was gulping desperately at a water skin. Seeming to sense his superior’s gaze, Eos hastily lowered the water and backed up a step, lowering his eyes. "Sire, my men and I have returned. I apologize for our tardiness. We would have come sooner, but as we traveled through the city we were forced to take a different route and journey through the buildings. There were too many watching eyes."  


Eomer’s eyes darkened and he looked at the other four riders. "Your horses have been seen to?"  


"Yes, my lord," Eos answered, still keeping his gaze directed at the ground.  


"I sent ten into the desert. Why are there only five here?"  


Eos blinked and his head came up, his eyes finally meeting his king’s. "My lord?"  


"Where are Captain Arhelm and the other four riders?" Eomer demanded.  


Eos seemed to be at something of a loss, and his brow furrowed. "We separated, my king. We thought they would have returned long before we did."  


You separated!?" Eomer demanded. He would have said more, but a hand suddenly came down upon his wounded shoulder, forcing him to pause as his breath caught within him. Aragorn now stood at his side, and a quick shake of the other’s head warned Eomer about losing his temper. And somehow, despite the heat and his anger, Eomer managed to heed this advice.  


"We discovered a trail of horsemen leading away west that appeared to have broken away from Khurintu’s trail," Eos explained. "We feared that Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas might have been taken with them, so we separated to follow both trails."  


Taking a deep breath, Eomer closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Had he been with the group and discovered the different trails, he would have probably done the same thing. But that did not make dealing with the consequences of this decision any easier. Arhelm and his men were still missing. There was no way of knowing whether or not they had found Gimli and Legolas. Or if they were even still alive. Deciding to concentrate on what could be discovered, Eomer firmly reined in his temper and looked at Eos again. "Report on your own progress, then," he ordered. "What did you discover?"  


"Naught of note, sire," Eos said quietly with a slight shake of his head. "We followed them as far as we were able and then a bit further, but for all that, we can only confirm that the bulk of Khurintu traveled northeast. We know nothing else. They traveled swiftly and stopped little."  


"There was no sign of prisoners?" Aragorn asked.  


"None, my lord. I am sorry."  


Eomer grimaced, frustration running rampant in his mind. "If there is nothing else, Eos, then you and those with you are dismissed. Seek rest and healing. We shall have need of your spears come evening."  


Eos gave a short bow, but he did not turn to leave. Instead, he hesitated and watched Eomer closely, a sliver of fear gleaming in his eyes. "My lord…we saw fires in the Portu encampment and were told it was the work of Orthanc Fire. Is this true?"  


Eomer sighed. "It is."  


"But—"  


"Sleep, Eos," he interrupted. "I realize you have questions, and they shall be answered. But not now. Now you must recover."  


For a moment there was no response to this, but then Eos nodded, his posture clearly indicating reluctance. Satisfied that he would be obeyed, Eomer turned around and found himself confronted with the troubled faces of Aragorn and Budari.  


"Our numbers continue to diminish," Budari said quietly.  


"Surely you have allies here," Eomer reasoned. "Surely the Lotessa tribe has clout that will persuade others to join us."  


"Not after the events of last night," Budari said. "The Orthanc Fire is being interpreted as a sign that the Destroyer is seeking vengeance. And as we have allied ourselves with you, others fear to join."  


"But the fires also struck Soltari and Portu," Eomer argued. "They had not allied with us. Surely the people here cannot think that we are the sole cause of this!"  


"The people here are frightened," Aragorn murmured, shaking his head. "They seek something to blame this upon, and a foreign presence is easily targeted." Gondor’s king pursed his lips and looked away for a moment before turning to Budari. "What news has been gathered of Fastahn and the Soltari tribe?"  


"Few of those I sent to listen for tidings have returned," Budari said, his eyes hooded. He had turned and was watching the five Rohirrim who had recently arrived. Silent for a moment, he eventually signaled to one of the tribesmen that had been accompanying the Rohirrim and had a rapid conversation in the tongue of Harad.  


Eomer himself still had no understanding of this strange language, but based on Aragorn’s expression, something was wrong. "What do they say?" Eomer hissed, hoping that Aragorn would be able to provide him with a quick summary.  


Aragorn looked his way and blinked. "Pardon?"  


Realizing with a flash of despair that Aragorn had not clearly heard him, Eomer raised his voice slightly and prayed that Aragorn’s hearing would recover in the near future. "I asked for a translation."  


"We speak of Arabano," Budari answered for Aragorn, breaking off his conversation and turning back to the two kings. "He accompanied the men of Rohan for a time but then left on an errand of his own. After that, they decided to leave the streets and take to the buildings. Arabano was expected to arrive before now."  


"First Arhelm and his men, and now Arabano," Eomer said grimly. "All missing and all expected to be here."  


"I do not worry for Arabano himself but rather for what he has discovered," Budari said, rubbing his chin. "He was entrusted with the guard of your Rohirrim when they arrived. He would not easily forsake such a charge unless something of vital import caught his attention."  


"But until we know what that something of vital import is, we can do nothing about it," Aragorn sighed. The muscles about his jaw bunched and then his shoulders gave a small shrug. "Come, Eomer. I wish to look at your left shoulder. It was hastily bandaged in the desert. And if you would accompany us, Budari, your input would be valued. We are attempting to prepare for tonight. We suspect that Khurintu will return."  


"Whatever we attempt, the fact remains that we do not have the numbers to withstand them," Budari said.  


"So Eomer has already noted," Aragorn answered. "But that does not mean we shall not try."  


"He wishes to stage an ambush just outside of Khurintu," Eomer said flatly.  


"An ambush?" Budari’s eyebrows climbed up under the scarves wrapped about his head. "We may as well fall upon our own swords and deny Khurintu the honor. We will not withstand them for even a single night, and our defeat will be witnessed by every tribe here!"  


Eomer felt a tangible wave of anger and frustration flow off of Aragorn. "As I have already told Eomer, I—"  


"Hold!"  


Everyone froze and looked toward the building’s main entrance.  


"Hold, I beseech you, honored ones," the command repeated itself, and Arabano came forward, sweat glistening off his tanned skin. "If you speak of strategy, you may wish to reconsider whatever plans you have made."  


"You were ordered to see to the safety of the returning Rohirrim," Budari said somewhat curtly. "Why were you not with them when they arrived here?"  


"I was seeing to the safety of the greater whole, honored one," Arabano answered, his chin rising slightly in challenge. "And my labors have proved fruitful."  


"Indeed?"  


"I know why the Soltari tribe was a target of the Orthanc Fire."  


A tremor of excitement rushed through Eomer, but even as it did so, despair reached up to reclaim his heart. The time for information had passed. Questions might now have answers, but in the end, it was going to come down to a final confrontation with the Khurintu tribe that they would lose because they lacked the numbers for it.  


"That is well and good, but how does this knowledge aid us now?" Budari asked, the tone of his voice suggesting that he shared Eomer’s thoughts on the matter.  


"Because this knowledge may provide us with allies," Arabano answered.  


A startled hush fell over them, and Eomer suddenly found himself daring to hope. "Allies?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. "What allies do you speak of?"  


"The tribes of Portu, Soltari, and Warra," Arabano answered, and a faint smiled curved the sides of his mouth.  


"How?" Budari demanded. "With suspicion as great as it is, I do not understand how—"  


"If you would, honored ones, your questions can better be answered if you accompany me," Arabano interrupted. "Fastahn, Radarad, and Joranen await your presence, if you deign to meet with them."  


Eomer blinked and looked toward Aragorn. "Fastahn?" the king of Gondor questioned. "What guarantee do we have that this is no trap?"  


"I swear it upon my father’s honor," Arabano replied, his black eyes taking on a look of intensity. "May death and disgrace take me swiftly should I lead you into danger."  


This was enough for Budari, who nodded his agreement. "I trust your judgement now as I have in the past. I will accompany you."  


"I will come as well," Aragorn said, though his voice was still slightly suspicious.  


"And I," Eomer added, not about to let Aragorn out of his sights. He was still concerned about the other’s hearing and as well as the broken arm. If the king of Gondor would not look to his own health, then the king of Rohan would do it for him.  


"Then come," Arabano said, and it seemed to Eomer that he loosed a sigh of relief. "It is time to learn all that Khurintu has set in motion."  



	36. Changing of the Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Character List** (OC indicates Original Character)  
 **Arabano(OC)** —Second-in-command of Lotessa **  
Aragorn** —King of Gondor **  
Arhelm(OC)** —Captain of Rohan’s guard **  
Arnor(OC)** —Aragorn’s horse **  
Asbad(OC)** —Tribal head of Khurintu **  
Aulit(OC)** —Tribal head of Gartabo (Also charged with overseeing this year's Gathering)  
 **Bron(OC)** —Member of the Portu tribe (Killed by Dashnir at Lake Supt) **  
Budari(OC)** —Tribal head of Lotessa **  
Dashnir(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe **  
Eomer** —King of Rohan **  
Faensul(OC)** —Legolas’s elven horse **  
Fastahn(OC)** —Member of Soltari’s advisory council (Temporary ruler of Soltari in the wake of Khesva's death) **  
Garat(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (Killed by Legolas in a cave while waiting out a sandstorm) **  
Gimli** —Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond **  
Imhran(OC)** —Captain of Gondor’s guard **  
Imrahil** —Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights **  
Joranen(OC)** —Tribal head of Warra **  
Khesva(OC)** —Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (Killed by Orthanc Fire outside of Haradhur) **  
Legolas** —Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood **  
Mohart(OC)** —Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (Inadvertantly poisoned by Imrahil at Dol Amroth, though he survived the encounter) **  
Radarad(OC)** —Tribal head of Portu **  
Shade(OC)** —Eomer’s horse

  
**Tribe List  
Gartabo**—Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Khurintu** —Northern based warrior tribe **  
Lotessa** —Southern based warrior tribe **  
Portu** —Widespread raiding tribe **  
Soltari** —Centrally located agricultural tribe **  
Warra** —Northern based warrior tribe

* * * *

Gimli awoke to a rather strange situation.

His dazed mind blearily registered this and promptly passed it off as something to be expected.

The dwarf was used to strange situations. It seemed to be the normal state of affairs when one had an elf for a friend, as elves themselves were more or less walking contradictions. Often there were times when Gimli’s common sense would advise one thing, his dwarven instincts would say something else, and his elven companion would offer up an utterly ridiculous third plan that everyone else would seize upon as the best option available. So when Gimli eventually clawed his way back to consciousness with the conflicting senses of urgent haste and contented safety to find himself in surroundings that felt both familiar and foreign, the dwarf was not unduly alarmed.

He was concerned, certainly. It always paid to be concerned when an elf lurked nearby. But Gimli didn’t try to immediately gain his feet, as he might have seven years ago. He knew better than to react that quickly without first learning the particulars of the situation, especially since it seemed that he had been injured in some way. His throat screamed and burned while throbbing pain from both his head and his thigh threatened to send him back to the blissful darkness he’d just left. It was only through sheer dwarven stubbornness that Gimli managed to cling to his newfound consciousness, and as he struggled to stay both awake and alert, memories began to assault him.

Images flashed through his mind in a disorienting blur of color and light. His stomach churned as he struggled to slow the barrage, and his temples began pounding as sound and sensation joined the assault. Once again, Gimli saw the endless stretch of burning sand glistening beneath the merciless desert sun. He heard the shrill scream of a dying horse and the deafening thunder of sudden explosions. He felt Legolas pin him firmly to the ground while the flesh and muscle of his thigh tore beneath the onslaught of a dull blade. His heart pounded and his breath quickened as his mind roared through the recent past, and Gimli discovered that he could now order his memories. He could trace the sequence of events up until the present, an accomplishment that made him inordinately proud. He was in the desert with Legolas, and the elf had found a cave, which explained why his surroundings felt both familiar and strange. Also, the two of them were safe for the moment, but this safety was fleeting. And they were injured. Both of them. Grievously so, in Gimli’s case, and in the case of the elf…

Where was the elf?

About this time, Gimli realized that he had not yet opened his eyes, an oversight that disturbed him but that he would have to worry about later. For the moment, he had to locate Legolas. Elves seemed to be in need of constant supervision, and Gimli could only imagine what trouble Legolas had found since the dwarf had last been awake.

Pooling his waning energy, Gimli concentrated and eventually managed to drag open reluctant eyelids. At first he did not notice a change in his vision, and the horrifying idea came that he might have been rendered blind. Fortunately, he then noticed a faint light reflecting off the stone of the cave’s ceiling above him, and following this light he eventually found the entrance to their haven where even more light spilled in. He was not blind; it was merely dark. Gimli allowed himself a quick sigh of relief before realizing that he had yet to discover Legolas.

There was still no sign of the elf.

Fear began to grow within the dwarf, but he ruthlessly shoved his terror to the back of his mind, calling upon senses other than sight. Until now, his mind had been a little too jumbled to process information garnered from things such as sound and touch, but as he concentrated, Gimli began to make out what seemed to be the whisper of faint breathing off to one side. He tried to look in that direction and quickly discovered that moving his head was not among his wiser choices. Closing his eyes against the pain that erupted in the back of his skull, Gimli ground his teeth together and decided that it would probably be easiest to find Legolas if he simply called out to the elf.

"Legolas?"

Gimli waited a few moments.

"Legolas?"

A few more moments passed.

"Legolas?!"

Panic hit Gimli like a charging mûmak, but just as quickly as his adrenaline mounted, it faded again. Legolas was clearly alive, for it was his breathing that had drawn the dwarf’s attention. And judging from its light, steady rhythm, Legolas was not unconscious but rather asleep. _But he should have been roused by my voice_ , Gimli thought as fear edged its way back into his heart. _And knowing his protective nature, it is unlike him to have fallen asleep in the first place. But then…how long has it been since Legolas last slept? And what hardships has he been forced to endure on my behalf? I know that he carried me for hours during the night, and he supported me for Valar only know how long prior to that. And he somehow found caves, which meant he carried me after the sun rose. After he rode the horse to her death. After he engineered our escape._ Gimli blinked in the darkness as coherency caught up with him, realizing just how much the elf had endured. _Has he taken no thought for himself?! He will be the death of me yet. I do not think that he slept at all yesterday, and I am certain that he received no food since…how long have we been away from Haradhur? Two days? It feels more like a lifetime._

Gimli might have pursued these thoughts further as it seemed wholly impossible that only two days ago he and Legolas had been safe—or at least relatively so—but the damp rag that had been sitting on his brow chose that moment to shift. Gimli almost jumped, for he had not even known the rag was there until it slid down over his eyes and then fell to the ground. And as faint hints of moisture caressed his cheek, the dwarf realized that the burning in his throat was a sign of intense thirst. As though hungry for attention, his parched body suddenly chorused along with his throat, demanding water. So intense was his sudden craving that Gimli moved to sit up without thinking of the consequences. He instantly cried out and fell back, the blinding throb of his thigh and head stopping his feeble attempts to rise.

Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes, panting in agony. This would never work. He needed water. Needed it badly. The dwarven constitution was made to endure hardships, but Gimli’s body had endured far too much already. He could not hold out any longer, yet he was completely incapable of moving himself. He needed Legolas to help him. It was a galling admission for the dwarf, but even worse was the thought that he would have to rouse his friend from desperately needed slumber in order to fulfill his own needs. Legolas would not object. In fact, if he failed to wake the elf and did further harm to his body as a result, the prince would probably have his head. But the notion of bothering Legolas for something so trivial as a drink of water caused a foul taste to rise in the dwarf’s mouth.

Which, of course, only served to make his thirst stronger.

Gimli sighed, cursing his fate. Much as he hated the idea, he knew that his health was too precarious to risk waiting for Legolas to wake on his own. Besides, the dwarf did not know how much longer he would be conscious, and there were things that needed to be discussed. He wished to know their exact location as well as how they were going to return to Haradhur. There was also the matter of dealing with the Khurintu tribe, assessing Legolas’s own condition, hashing out exactly what had happened to them and why, and the list went on from there. No, it was clear that Legolas’s rest, no matter how deserved or how needed, had to come to an end.

"Forgive me, my friend," Gimli murmured, mustering his strength. "Were it in my power to do so, I would see that none disturbed you for weeks on end. You have more than earned a respite. But as that cannot be, I ask your forgiveness." Gathering all the energy that he could, the dwarf raised his arm and reached out toward Legolas. His fingers brushed bare skin on the elf’s upper arm, but he flinched back, shocked at the unnatural heat that he’d found. Fear now pressed him onward, and again he touched the elf, laying his hand on the arm and shaking it gently. Legolas had always seemed unusually sensitive to touch, and Gimli hoped that this would rouse the elf.

He was not disappointed.

Legolas shot upright, moving so quickly that Gimli’s head spun in an effort to keep up with the motion. Elven eyes flashed in the dim light of their shelter, and the dwarf abruptly realized that Legolas’s eyes had previously been closed. "By Mahal," Gimli hissed, staring at his friend. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Gimli?" Legolas’s normally soothing voice was rough, hoarse, and heavy with exhaustion. "Gimli, are you—"

"Do you have no sense of your own health?" Gimli interrupted harshly, his earlier need for water now forgotten. "Much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot look after you right now. I had thought you would look after yourself, but clearly I was mistaken."

The dwarf intended to go on, but his dry throat protested his tirade by initiating a series of sudden and violent coughs. The movement made the ache in his head explode in a burst of white agony and his body began to writhe, causing his right thigh to scream in pain. For a brief moment, he was dimly aware of frantic motion off to the side as well as a deep moaning sound that echoed off the cave walls, and then he plunged into a dark abyss of torture.

"Gimli? Gimli?!"

The insistent voice seemed to come from a great distant, and Gimli struggled to answer it. The pain was beginning to lessen a bit, but his mind could not seem to right itself. The world tipped to one side, and nausea assailed his stomach. Flashes of light went off within his head, and as he gasped as reality rolled around him. Darkness loomed above, threatening to smother him in its thick folds.

"Gimli! Can you answer?!"

Within his mind, Gimli spun and cried out, seeking the voice and the comfort it would bring. Never before had the dwarf felt so disoriented or so panicked, and his confusion made the situation even more bewildering.

"You are too stubborn for this, dwarf. You do not give in so easily. Elbereth, open your eyes, Gimli. Answer me! _Pedo!_ "

The lapse into the elf’s native tongue galvanized Gimli into greater action. Legolas didn’t do that unless he was very frightened or very serious. His friend’s fear lent the dwarf strength, and he fought harder to break through the barriers that kept him from the outside world. And at long last, after many futile attempts, he managed it.

"Legolas?"

"Here, Gimli. I am here." The relief in the elf’s voice was a balm for the dwarf’s spirit, and the dwarf was suddenly aware of hands gripping his shoulders tightly. "I am here," Legolas said again, seeming to speak for both of them.

"Legolas…" The second utterance of the elf’s name emerged as a plea for comfort. Under any other circumstances, Gimli would have been appalled at such weakness within himself and would have taken every measure to hide it. But now, Arda had been turned on its head and he needed his friend’s presence as an assurance that there was still a measure of sanity in his world. He needed to know that he had not fallen prey to madness, which was becoming a very real fear for the dwarf.

He felt a touch on his brow, and then the elf’s arm slid beneath him, curling around his head and shoulders with infinite gentleness. He was lifted slowly, but even that motion pushed his pounding headache up a level and he could not hold back a pitiful moan. The elf stopped immediately and waited a moment before raising the dwarf slightly higher. Moist fabric was placed against his lips and Gimli eagerly opened his mouth.

"Gently," Legolas warned. "Do not rush. See how it settles."

Had it not been for the rising nausea in the dwarf’s stomach, he might not have heeded his friend, but the sudden fear that he would lose this precious water enabled Gimli to suck the water from the fabric at a slower pace. After he had drained most of the moisture from the cloth, Legolas eased his head back down and placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder as though to reassure him of his presence.

"More?" Legolas asked.

"Not now," the dwarf muttered, closing his eyes as the world spun carelessly around him. His stomach was spinning with it and he feared greatly that he should lose the little that he had managed to drink.

"You need water, my friend. Can you not take a little more?"

"Later," Gimli promised, wincing at the fear that still colored the elf’s voice. His heart pounded, his head ached, his thigh throbbed, and his stomach rolled, but his thirst was now sated. That helped immensely. Reaching up, he placed his hand over the hand that rested on his shoulder. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You are more than welcome." There was a pause, and then Legolas spoke again. "Do you remember what has happened?"

"For the most part," Gimli said, keeping his eyes closed. It seemed to hurt less if he didn’t strain to see what could not be seen in the dark. "I know where we are and what we face, so you may set aside your fears of delirium."

"I am glad," the elf said. "You have been unconscious for many hours, and I was concerned about your head."

"Well, my mind seems to be whole so long as I do not move suddenly."

"Then we shall see to it that you remain still."

Gimli grunted. "I doubt we will be given the opportunity. My memories are unclear concerning the escape, but based on what I do recall, you have surely dealt the Khurintu tribe a terrible blow. They will doubtless be furious."

"I certainly hope so," Legolas said, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

The dwarf smiled a little. "From what I recall, it was well done, my friend. I only wish I could have aided you in someway, and for my weakness, I apologize. I also apologize for waking you just now."

There was silence in response to this, and after a moment Gimli opened his eyes in time to make out Legolas shaking his head. "I should be the one to apologize. I did not intend to fall asleep."

"It seemed that you needed the sleep," the dwarf pointed out.

"That may be true, but you needed me more."

"Fool," Gimli chided. "I was unconscious. There was not a better time for you to sleep."

"Perhaps." Something akin to reluctant agreement was now in the elf’s tone. "You might be right, but—"

"Of course I am right," Gimli scoffed. "When will you learn that I am always right?" He inwardly smiled at the quick chuckle that followed this remark, satisfied that if Legolas could laugh, the situation couldn’t be too bad. "In any case, what was done is done and there is little use arguing over it now. It is time to move on to other things. How do you feel?"

"That was to be my question for you."

"I inquired first."

"I was not the one who spent most of the previous night unconscious. Your health is more dubious than mine."

Gimli grimaced and wished he could shake off his clinging weariness long enough to debate with Legolas. At the moment, he could not contest the elf’s logic. "I believe my actions have adequately demonstrated my health," he grumbled, hoping to find a compromise of sorts.

"But what of your leg?" Legolas pressed. "Did lancing the wound aid it? Do you think it is still infected?"

Knowing that Legolas would persist in this until he was satisfied, Gimli concentrated on his thigh and tried to analyze the pain he felt. "It is not worse," he said at length. "That is probably a good sign."

" _Probably_?"

"Legolas, I am no more a healer than you are. I do not know how my leg fares. I only know that it aches but that it does not seem to ache more than it did earlier."

"And we believe that this is _probably_ a good sign?"

"Yes, we do. Or rather, I do, at least. Now what of you?" Gimli asked, shifting the conversation abruptly. "What of your own wound? You were shot, were you not?"

"I was," Legolas said, apparently willing to allow the change in subject. "But it was no great matter. I drew the arrow while still in the desert and it has not bothered me since."

Gimli pursed his lips. "But when I touched your arm to wake you, your skin was hot. Mayhap the arrow was poisoned, or maybe the wound is infected. Do you—"

"The wound was shallow and I washed it as best I could," Legolas interrupted. "I feel no trace of infection."

"But the fever—"

"I believe the sun to be responsible for the heat upon my skin," Legolas explained, sounding somewhat defensive. "We went without shelter for too long, and elves were not intended for this environment."

Looking back years later, Gimli could never determine exactly what set it off. Perhaps it was the way Legolas spoke. Perhaps it was the way he phrased his words. Perhaps their presence in a cave had relaxed Gimli’s mind. Perhaps stress and fatigue had finally overcome him. Whatever the reason, though, the fact that Legolas’s fever was nothing more than a sunburn struck Gimli as ridiculously funny, and the dwarf began to laugh.

These were not quiet chuckles or idle snorts of amusement. These were full, convulsive laughs that clawed their way up from Gimli’s stomach and rattled his pounding head until he felt like taking an axe to his neck. Gasping for air as loud guffaws tore through him, the dwarf tried to control his mirth but found that he could not. His laughter rang through the cavern along with his grunts of pain, and when Legolas began to call his name in an attempt to calm him, Gimli only laughed harder. Tears streamed down his face, his chest shook and heaved, and his voice became high and breathy as the laughter continued.

"Gimli!" Legolas shouted, and in the dim light, the dwarf could make out traces of panic in his friend’s eyes. "Gimli, you will tear your wound!"

Gimli was very aware that he was in danger of reopening the wound on his thigh because he could feel it stretching each time he laughed. At one point he managed to wipe the smile from his face and assume a sober expression, but that lasted only briefly and then a mad giggle escaped him that shook his dwarven pride to the very core.

"Gimli!"

The elf was frantic now, and Gimli felt something cool and moist come to rest on his brow just before a hard slap landed on his cheek. His head screamed, but the pain and shock of the blow managed to do what the dwarf could not. His laughter subsided, and his mirth faded. Seizing the opportunity, Gimli reasserted control and took several deep, calming breaths.

"Gimli?"

Winded and weary, Gimli reached up and found the elf’s hand. "My apologies," he whispered. The world was spinning again, and he felt nausea lurking in the depths of his stomach. "I do not know what came over me."

"I feared your fever was driving you to madness," Legolas murmured. "You are still dangerously warm." He gave the dwarf’s fingers a squeeze and then released them, his hands moving to the wet cloth on Gimli’s brow and adjusting it.

"A fever could not accomplish what you have failed to do," Gimli answered weakly. "Having now survived many years of your friendship with my sanity intact, I am prepared for almost anything."

"I could say the same for myself, Master Dwarf," the elf responded with a hint of relief in his voice. "Would you like more water now? The laughter seems to have tired you."

"Nay, my stomach is fitful," Gimli said. "I do not think it would be a good idea to drink."

"Then perhaps you should sleep again. You may feel better when you wake."

The idea was tempting. Seductively tempting, in fact. Even now, the wispy tendrils of unconsciousness called to him, luring him closer with the promise to release him from his pain. But he could not give in. There were reasons he had roused the elf, and he would not seek his own welfare until certain things had been discussed. "I have rested enough already," the dwarf said, attempting to sound firm. "Now that I am awake, there are things we must speak of, namely our plans for the future. What shall we do next?"

"Rest."

Gimli resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not knowing if Legolas would be able to see the gesture. "In ideal circumstances, I would be more than happy to go along with that suggestion, but we both know that these are not ideal circumstances."

"Which makes it all the more imperative that you rest."

The dwarf frowned. "We cannot stay here, Legolas. Khurintu will surely come looking for us. And even if they do not, we must find Aragorn and Eomer. Somehow, we must make it back to them."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Legolas’s voice was suddenly sharp. "I am weak, Gimli. Between the sun, captivity, and _ú-glîr_ , I have lost what strength I had, and I am slow to regain it. I cannot carry you any further. Will you be able to walk by evening?"

Startled by the outburst, Gimli took a moment to study his companion. "You have already considered this," he observed at length.

"And you have failed to answer my question."

The dwarf scowled at the elf’s persistence. "Nay," he admitted reluctantly. "I do not think I shall be able to walk by evening."

"Nor do I."

"But that does not prevent you from seeking aid. You could go without me."

The unbridled power of a full elven glare descended upon the dwarf, forcing its way through the dark to make its presence known. Even though he could not see Legolas’s face clearly, Gimli found himself squirming slightly as the searing heat of a deadly gaze fastened itself upon him. "I will not leave you behind."

"We cannot both stay," Gimli reasoned as he mentally pleaded with the elf to look somewhere else.

"What if something should happen while I was gone? Earlier you mentioned that I had dealt Khurintu a terrible blow, and in that, you do not err. They shall be searching for us, and they shall seek retribution. You cannot hold them off by yourself. You cannot even sit upright under your own power! What would happen if Khurintu were to find you here alone?"

Gimli wondered if stupidity was a natural elven trait or if it was acquired sometime during childhood. "Pause for a moment and think, Legolas. What would happen if Khurintu were to find you here with me? Your presence would not improve my chances! You said yourself that you are weak. Think you that you would be able to stop them should they find us? They will kill you on sight for what you did to them. Better that one of us escapes rather than both perish."

Legolas said nothing for several long, awkward seconds, and then he turned away, finally freeing the dwarf from his gaze. "I will think on it," he said.

"Mahal save us," Gimli sighed. "The elf is going to think on it. I fear that fortune has truly deserted us."

The elven glare returned and Gimli wisely decided to say no more. He had pressed his luck too far already. Besides, the conversation was draining for him, and he doubted that any good would come of further discussion. It was clear to Gimli that separating was their only real option, and it was clear that Legolas knew this as well, else he would not have been so upset by it. The elf had tried to keep them together, but that was no longer possible. In fact, as Gimli considered recent events, he decided that they should have separated long before now. Legolas should have made his escape alone. He had risked much by taking Gimli with him. If it hadn’t been for that strange song…

"How did you do it?" the dwarf wondered aloud.

"Pardon?"

"When we escaped," he clarified. "How did you control both the horses and the men? You sang something, but I have never heard its like before."

"Hopefully you will never hear its like again," Legolas muttered.

"But what was it?" Gimli asked, curiosity and a desire to fight his exhaustion now pushing him. "It seemed…I do not know if I could even begin to describe it. I felt pulled away and lost, but I had no desire to return. The song was…everything."

"The song was the sea."

Gimli’s heart lurched into his throat. "The sea?"

"Yes. Or rather, something like unto it." Gimli heard the elf shift uncomfortably beside him. "For the elves, song is more than just words and melody. It is memory. And not just memory in the sense of things distantly recalled, but living memory. Many of our songs are moments of time that convey both lives and feelings. They can be windows to glory or doorways to suffering. When I sang among the Khurintu, I gave voice to the sea-longing that afflicts me. You have seen it take my mind before at Dol Amroth, so you know how powerful it can be. Mortal minds are not able to understand the sea’s call as I do, but I can give them a hint of its strength. And even diminished, that strength can be overwhelming."

Weariness had been swiftly overtaking Gimli, but this revelation pushed it back. His brow furrowing, the dwarf strained to see Legolas’s face in the darkness. "You can do this? Durin’s beard, why did you wait to use such a weapon?" he demanded. "If it is capable of so lulling our opponents, then—"

"I did not use it because I must surrender myself to the sea-longing in order to give voice to it. And when I do that, I risk losing myself to it permanently."

Gimli blinked, stunned. "And you risked this?!"

The elf chuckled. "First you were angry that I hesitated, and now you are angry that I acted?"

"Legolas!"

"Peace, my friend," Legolas sighed. "It was a risk and one I do not wish to take again, but the situation was desperate. I had hope that I would not become lost because my mind had become wholly occupied with concern for our safety."

" _Our_ safety?" Gimli echoed. "It seems to me that you were not concerned with yourself at all."

"Your safety, then."

"And what if that had not been enough?"

"Our friendship is one of my surest anchors against the sea-longing. I believed that it would pull me back should I go too far, and I was right. Beyond that, we are in the desert. The sea-longing is less here. I would not have attempted such a thing if the sea was close by, but it is not. I was safe enough."

"Even so, you should not have done it," Gimli insisted, now spent from his outburst. "Legolas, you give too much."

"I give only what we have ever given each other," Legolas answered, his hand falling upon the dwarf’s shoulder. "I give you my friendship and trust. I ask that you do the same. Hush now, and rest. We will speak again when you are stronger."

"We should speak of this now," Gimli said, though he could feel his eyes growing heavy.

"Nay, we should not. We can do nothing while the sun is overhead save to rest, and that is what you shall do. Peace, Gimli. I will watch over us."

"But—"

"Hush."

"Legolas—"

"Hush!"

This time, Legolas’s command was accompanied by the elf’s hand passing over Gimli’s face, and the dwarf’s eyes automatically fluttered shut. And once closed, Gimli found that he had no desire to open his eyes. The weariness he’d pushed away had returned, and though he struggled against it, he could not prevail.

"Sleep," Legolas ordered quietly, and as he spoke, he removed the damp cloth from the dwarf’s brow and began wiping it over Gimli’s temples, his movements rhythmic and soothing. Gimli felt his fever diminish a bit, and his body began to seem distant and remote. He could not win this round, and Gimli was wise enough to recognize defeat when he met it.

"Wake me before sunset," he managed to say as Legolas’s presence slipped further away from him.

"Sleep," the elf whispered once more, moving the cloth down so that its cool moisture brushed over Gimli’s neck and shoulders. Finally surrendering to the darkness, the dwarf fell into a dreamless night, leaving Legolas to assume a lonely vigil.

* * * *

Aragorn knew that the shock from his injuries was beginning to overcome him. He was too good a healer, too good a Ranger, and too good a king to ignore this fact. During his younger years, he had learned over and over again that survival meant acknowledging his weaknesses, whether they were in his plans, his men, or himself. Aragorn had also learned that once weaknesses were acknowledged, they had to be overcome. In the case of injuries, the wounded party either had to step up or step down, and Aragorn was well aware that he could not back away from this in order to rest. Rohan and Gondor needed leadership, and though he trusted Eomer with many things, the king of the Mark did not know nearly enough about Haradrim culture to cope with what was happening on his own. So Aragorn steeled his will and did his best to push away all the instincts of his body that demanded sleep and healing. There was simply no time for it.

Eomer, however, seemed to hold a different opinion. He pressed uncomfortably close to Aragorn as they followed Arabano through Haradhur’s winding streets, almost as though preparing to catch him should he stumble or fall. And while part of Aragorn was grateful for the concern, another part was becoming increasingly annoyed. Aside from embarrassment at being subtly coddled before the flanking Lotessa guards, the king of Gondor felt as though some kind of trust had been broken. Did Eomer really expect him to topple over? Did he have so little confidence in Aragorn that he thought him incapable of assessing his own health? Yes, he was pushing himself and yes, he should stop to rest, but given the situation, these things could not happen. And Aragorn still had strength enough to rise to the occasion. Did Eomer truly doubt his judgement so much?

__

Probably, Aragorn thought to himself with a mental sigh. _And were I in his place, I would act no differently._ Wearily, the king shook his head. He knew that part of his own irritation came from concern over his injuries, and he knew that Eomer was an easy target for his anger. He would have to assume better control of his emotions. Arabano had promised them allies, but in the desert, both promises and allies came with conditions. Aragorn needed to be alert and calm in order to see what compromise they would be forced into making. He could not allow anger to cloud his mind.

"We are here, honored ones," Arabano suddenly said.

They stood before a low building that seemed to be unconnected to any of the buildings around it. Looking at the empty carts outside and the wide doorway, Aragorn guessed that this was a market building of some kind. It was difficult to see within the structure, but it was apparent that no one stood near any of the windows or doors. That meant no one had been stationed as a guard, which did not make sense. There were guards everywhere in Haradhur, especially after the events of the previous two nights. Frowning, Aragorn turned to Arabano, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did so. "You are certain that this is no trap?"

"As certain as one can be in uncertain times, honored one."

That wasn’t exactly reassuring. Judging from the way Eomer’s hand rested firmly upon the hilt of his sword, his opinion was shared. "You said that Fastahn, Radarad, and Joranen await us," the king of Rohan said. "And you said there were guards. Have they all chosen to stand well inside? And if so, why?"

"I would not lead you here unnecessarily, honored one." Arabano’s voice had become hard, and his dark eyes flashed. "And I would not risk your safety if I did not think the venture to be worth your time. I do not know why there is no evidence of guards or watchers. Possibly they did not wish to draw attention to themselves. Have we not done likewise in our own camp?"

__

True enough, Aragorn conceded, thinking back to the precautions they’d taken when setting up camp within the buildings. Guards had been stationed throughout, but they had been positioned in such a way that the casual observer would not see them from the outside. _Although, our guards hide because our forces are weakened and we fear to draw the attack of a greater opponent. Joranen and Radarad, insofar as we know, have no claim to such fears._

"I have come this far," Budari spoke. "I will go further. I have spoken already of my trust in Arabano. If this were indeed a trap, he would not have brought us."

"Assuming he knew it was a trap," Eomer muttered quietly. His words were soft, and Aragorn had to concentrate in order to understand what he’d said. He did not miss the fact that those around him seemed to have no problem hearing Eomer.

"Trap or no, let us go in," Aragorn said, taking a few steps forward. He would worry about his faulty hearing later. "Whatever awaits us, I would meet it in the cool of the shade rather than in the heat of the sun."

All seemed able to agree upon that, though Eomer’s hand remained tight upon his sword hilt, and they moved forward together, the guards continuing to follow them closely. Two moved up so that they walked before them, and Aragorn caught a flash of metal in their hands. If someone within the building—assuming that there _was_ someone in the building—made any movement that might be construed as a threat, there would be bloodshed. _Mayhap that will make Eomer happy_ , Aragorn mused, attempting to find a positive aspect. _He has been anxious to draw his sword for many days._

The group stepped inside, and Aragorn’s watchfulness immediately increased. He sensed no one lurking beside the doors or along the perimeter, but his eyes were taking a moment to adjust to the change in light and he could determine nothing about the rest of the building. But he was very aware of the growing tension, and this tension seemed to exist both within and without his group.

"You have returned."

A deep voice shattered the stillness, and Aragorn felt himself stiffen at the noise. He was now able to see in the dim light, and a quick search of the shelter revealed that they were alone save for one man who had been waiting for them: Fastahn.

"As I promised I would. I thought that Joranen and Radarad would be here as well," Arabano answered, making no attempt to hide his sudden suspicion.

"Honored ones." The Soltari tribesman moved forward and bowed, ignoring Arabano for the moment. "I am grateful you have come."

"Where are Joranen and Radarad," Budari demanded. Aragorn saw Eomer’s hand tightening on his sword hilt.

"They did not wish to meet with you until you had listened to my words, honored one," Fastahn said meekly. "I did not agree with their decision, but I understand it. Some of their actions or the actions of their tribe members could be misinterpreted if one were to make hasty conclusions."

"Indeed?"

"Honored one, this was not the agreement, but though I am loathe to admit it, I can understand their caution," Arabano said with a weary sigh.

"Both Joranen and Radarad are nearby, and both wish me to say that they extend offers of alliance to the Lotessa tribe as well as to Gondor and Rohan," Fastahn added hurriedly. "We shall meet with them when we are done, but they wished you to hear everything first before further discussion."

Budari folded his arms across his chest and looked to Arabano, who seemed torn between anger and resignation. Aragorn decided that he had endured enough posturing for one day. "We would welcome an alliance," he said, stepping forward and catching Fastahn within his gaze. "And I am willing to listen to you should that be a requirement for this arrangement. However," he added, stepping closer and adopting a gaze that Gimli had once claimed was eerily elven, "know that I will tolerate no betrayal. If you are stalling us or if I hear any hint of deceit, I will not hesitate to rid this city of your presence."

Aragorn sensed a rather incredulous stare at his back on the part of Eomer, but they were playing by the desert’s rules now and Aragorn needed to make himself clear. He was not a weak king of a distant foreign realm but the ruler of Gondor and heir to Isildur. He had been manipulated this way and that throughout their sojourn in the desert, and he was not about to be manipulated again.

And to Aragorn’s relief, Fastahn seemed to get the message. Backing up a bit, he dipped his head slightly as a show of respect. "I assure you, honored one, that this is a wise use of your time. These alliances will be invaluable if you wish to defeat Khurintu."

"And why should the Portu and the Warra tribes wish to ally with us?" Budari asked, placing himself firmly back in the conversation. Eomer moved up beside him to strengthen his own inclusion.

"Because both have been shamed by Khurintu," Fastahn said. "And both will be destroyed should Khurintu triumph over you."

"Explain," Aragorn commanded.

"Where would you like me to begin, honored ones?"

"The beginning," Arabano answered. "Tell them what you told me earlier, starting with the hawks."

"As you command," Fastahn said, bowing once more. "About two years ago, the Soltari tribe noticed a dramatic increase in the number of hawks within the northern and western areas of the desert. We came upon this discovery by chance when we attempted to establish a new colony near the Sihal but could find no meat in the area. It had all vanished. We traced this back to an increased sighting of hawks from other tribes, in particular the tribes of Warra and Khurintu."

"We noticed an unusual number of hawks on the borders of the desert when we entered," Eomer mused, glancing at Aragorn. "At the time, we believed them to be spies and messengers."

"A good assumption, honored ones," Fastahn said. "We were intrigued and began an intense study of the situation, using what resources we could. The disappearance of small game in the Sihal indicated that there had been many hawks in the sky for some time, but as there had been no hostile movements on the part of either Khurintu or Warra, we assumed they had come to an agreement of sorts. But we could not determine the goal of this agreement. Our spies among Warra knew nothing of an alliance, and our spies among Khurintu had heard only vague rumors. The details were not being discussed outside of council circles."

"I do not suppose you would care to tell me how many spies your tribe has within my tribe," Budari said idly, but his voice was laced with steel.

"Only if you agree to reveal the number of spies that you have within _my_ tribe," Fastahn answered. "I extended this same offer to Joranen and Radarad when they asked as well."

Budari allowed a quiet chuckle and nodded. "Continue. And come to the point quickly, if you can."

"As you command, honored one," Fastahn said. "We continued to look for details of the suspected alliance, but it was not until six months ago that we received any answers. My tribe lost contact with some of our agents in the Portu tribe. Our other spies within Portu knew nothing of their fate, which is understandable as Portu is a widespread tribe. Even so, we were suspicious and sent men of our own to investigate. We discovered that Warra had killed a contingent of Portu raiders and taken their women and children hostage."

Aragorn blinked. He did not know much of Joranen, but he knew enough to know that the Warra tribe held strict beliefs about honor. Holding women and children hostage would not sit well with them. "Joranen ordered such action?" he asked.

"We were equally surprised," Fastahn said. "And we began investigating this new development in earnest. After much searching, we discovered something rather interesting: the Warra men guarding the Portu hostages did not communicate with Joranen. They sent a few of their messages to the Khurintu tribe, but the bulk they sent to Garat, Warra’s second-in-command."

"Garat," Eomer said flatly, his eyes flashing with anger. Aragorn put a steadying hand on his arm, but his own anger was rising swiftly.

"We speak of the same Garat who attempted to murder a member of Gondor’s delegation?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes. We speak of the same Garat that your elf killed within the Sihal before your arrival in Haradhur."

Things began to click within Aragorn’s mind, and it felt as though a cloud that had been looming over his mind for days lifted suddenly. "Garat was operating independently," he said, his brow furrowing. "He created his own alliance with Khurintu and recruited men who would back him in this venture. But he did not have enough to operate on his own and Khurintu was consolidating power elsewhere, so he targeted a scattered tribe and forced them into his employ." Aragorn looked at Eomer. "We were right. It was the Portu tribe that attacked us that first night in the desert."

"And the second night of the Gathering," Eomer concluded.

"This also explains why Radarad is absent from this meeting," Budari said, his voice grim. "His tribe has much to answer for. And Joranen as well, if his tribe did indeed order Portu in its attacks."

"Joranen did not know what was happening. Garat was planting the seeds of a rebellion, but word of it had yet to reach Joranen’s ears, honored ones," Fastahn said quietly. "As for Radarad, he was forced in his actions. To an extent, he is still forced. Warra tribesmen still prevent his people from accessing some of their hidden lakes. And up until this morning, he did not know that Warra was not the enemy. He did not know that Joranen was ignorant of Garat’s orders."

"I find that part difficult to believe," Budari said, his voice low and dangerous. "Joranen’s own second turned against him, and he knew nothing of his movements?"

"According to Joranen, he knew that Garat was in contact with Khurintu," Fastahn answered. "But his tribe has agents among Khurintu’s warriors, and Joranen assumed that Garat was communicating with these spies."

"And you believe this?" Aragorn challenged. That information fit with things he was adding mentally in his head, but he wanted to make certain. They had worked on naught but speculation for too long.

"Yes, honored ones. I believe this," Fastahn said. "Joranen is not one to use women and children when his own warriors would suffice, but Garat was a man who would take extreme measures if need pressed. There is other evidence I could share to absolve Joranen of guilt, but time is short. Suffice it to say that I am certain of his innocence in this matter. And having learned of Garat’s treachery and alliance with Khurintu, Joranen wishes to strike back."

"That is well and good," Aragorn said slowly, "but it seems that not all of Joranen’s men are loyal to him. How can we trust any of the Warra tribe members?"

Fastahn’s lips curved in the hint of a smile. "This brings us to the last bit of my story. The majority of the Warra tribesmen present are the men who are _most_ loyal to Joranen. We believe that when Khurintu comes, they intend to destroy all of the Warra tribesmen here much as they destroyed Portu, Lotessa, and my own tribe. They could not do so earlier, though, because Portu needed to believe that Warra and Khurintu were working together. Otherwise, they would have revolted."

"And Portu now knows that Khurintu and Garat’s faction are the true enemy," Eomer surmised.

"Yes," Fastahn said. "And Joranen now knows of Garat’s treachery. Additionally, they know all that the Soltari tribe knows. They know that Asbad was the Destroyer. They know that the Khurintu tribe has your elf and dwarf and will probably use them in a demonstration to secure their image as the tribe chosen by the _Iluh_. They know that Khurintu will most likely attack us tonight while many of the tribes are still here to see the results of the victory. They know that joining with your forces is the only chance they have of saving their own tribes from destruction."

Hope was beginning to dawn in the eyes of Budari and Eomer, but Aragorn was still cautious. However well the pieces fit, there were yet a few unanswered questions that needed to be resolved. "I do not think you are placing enough importance on Garat’s death," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "Surely the rebellion within Warra would have fallen apart when they learned of his demise. Those seeking to defy leadership usually do not follow their current leader into death. How is it that some of the Portu tribe is still hostage? How is it that Portu has not rebelled before now or known of Garat’s faction within the Warra tribe?"

"That is a question that the Soltari tribe asked as well," Fastahn answered. "And through contacts within the Khurintu tribe, we learned that Dashnir was keeping up the pretense that Garat was still alive. The Warra tribesmen guarding Portu still do not know that their leader is dead."

Aragorn nodded, having anticipated that answer. It agreed with something that he was beginning to suspect. Something that Fastahn was trying to keep hidden. Hidden things could be exploited. "Do you know how Khurintu managed this?" Aragorn asked. "I should think that a sudden change in the messages and the hawks would be suspect."

"Yes, honored one, I do know how it was managed," Fastahn said, and Aragorn felt a slight thrill of triumph. "The Soltari tribe noticed that no one in the Warra tribe was sending hawks in the direction of Portu’s hidden lakes. At least, not from their encampment. But hawks _were_ leaving from Khurintu’s camp. And so I paid a visit to Dashnir just ere he left Haradhur in the hopes of uncovering this little mystery. And within Dashnir’s tent, I caught a smell: _fortsano_."

Budari blinked. "The drug?"

Eomer looked blank. "I fear I am unfamiliar with that term."

" _Fortsano_ is a powder made from crushed herbs found in the southern regions of the desert," Arabano answered. "It is poisonous to man, but in small doses it can be given to hawks. It shortens their lives, but it enhances their abilities, granting them added strength and stamina."

"Also, once they are given the drug, the hawks must continue to receive it or they die," Fastahn added. "Very few tribes have the need or desire to give their hawks _fortsano_. Warra is one of these tribes. Khurintu is not."

"Khurintu was caring for some of Warra’s hawks, then," Budari guessed.

"Specifically, Khurintu was caring for some of Garat’s hawks," Fastahn confirmed. "With these hawks, they had maintained the illusion that Garat still lived, allowing them to keep control of the faction beneath his command."

"And if Khurintu was doing this alone, then it is further evidence that none of the Warra tribe here belong to Garat’s forces," Eomer said. "Otherwise, one of them would have stepped in to replace Garat."

"So Khurintu and Garat’s faction of the Warra tribe forced Portu into attacking our camp and Haradhur," Aragorn said, ticking the facts off within his mind. "Garat died, and his death revealed that Warra’s leadership is ignorant of the plots, but Khurintu was able to retain control of Portu using Warra’s hawks. Do I have this aright?"

Fastahn nodded. "Yes, honored one."

"Now we add our own pieces of the puzzle. Asbad appeared as the Destroyer on the first night and challenged Legolas, who did not respond to the challenge one way or another. But rumors and suspicions began. Asbad next appeared before Aulit and ordered to remove the abominations, which Aulit took to mean Legolas and Gimli," Aragorn continued. "He was unable to do so, though, because Khurintu took them that same night even as Portu staged an attack upon Haradhur. The attackers were unidentified and more rumors spread as news of Asbad’s conversation with the Destroyer was learned. Khurintu then left Haradhur, and the night they departed, Orthanc Fire struck Soltari, Portu, and Lotessa."

"And here is where things become murky again," Eomer sighed. "Fastahn, did your contacts and spies hear anything of a relationship between Khurintu and Umbar?"

"Umbar?" Fastahn looked puzzled for a moment before he nodded slightly. "I know that Khurintu was trading with Umbar, but more than that, I cannot say."

"That is it," Eomer said, his hand slapping heavily against his sword hilt. "That is the link. We were right. That is where they received their lumber."

Fastahn’s eyes narrowed. "And why would they need lumber?"

"For reasons that we will discuss at another time," Aragorn said, determined to maintain control of the conversation. "I am currently more interested in strategy. Asbad and Dashnir will be coming here to take advantage of the confusion they have generated, but with the addition of Portu and Warra, we have enough numbers to stand before them just outside of Haradhur."

"We also have enough numbers to ride forth and meet them in the open desert," Eomer pointed out. "My men fight better under such conditions."

"Perhaps, but Khurintu will be expecting something like that," Aragorn said. "This has been orchestrated to deprive us of allies and weaken our own forces. Asbad and Dashnir will look for us to make an end where none can see or to hide within the city itself. The former option would result in our deaths, and Khurintu would then ride to Haradhur with our heads as well as Legolas and Gimli, demonstrating that they had the blessings of the _Iluh_. The latter option would result in a chance for them to liberate Haradhur from our hold and destroy those that had brought the abominations. But we will not play their game any longer. They will not expect a stand before the city, and they will begin to doubt themselves. Moreover, the forces of Portu and Warra can remain hidden within the walls so that Khurintu does not know of our allies until it is too late. In the end, we will defeat them where all of Harad can see. Their entire plan rests upon the appearance that they have been chosen to lead the desert against _abominations_ from the north. We can take that away from them."

"But Asbad may come wielding this Orthanc Fire in addition to controlling your elf and dwarf," Arabano cautioned. "And if that is the case, all of Haradhur shall watch as signs of the _Iluh_ are used against you."

Aragorn smiled, grateful that someone other than himself had brought up that point. "That is a possibility, but that is why we shall add yet another ally to our group." He turned to look at Fastahn.

Fastahn blinked and then frowned. "Honored one, Soltari is a neutral tribe. I revealed this information to you so that Khurintu would not tip the balance of power in the desert. I did not think to involve my tribe in a war."

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. "Then may I ask what purpose you had in going to Dashnir the day before Orthanc Fire appeared?"

Fastahn shifted slightly. "As I already said, it was to determine how Khurintu maintained control over Portu."

"And I found that portion of the tale interesting," Aragorn said, pitching his voice to be a bit too casual. "When you recounted your tale, you used the term _we_ for most of it, but when it came to your visit with Dashnir, the term changed to _I_. Fastahn, did Khesva authorize your visit with Dashnir?"

Something akin to grief flashed across Fastahn’s face. For a long moment he did not answer, and then he dropped his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. "Nay. Nay, my leader did not know I went to Dashnir."

"I did not think so," Aragorn said quietly. "And am I correct in guessing that discovering the _fortsano_ was not your only objective in visiting Khurintu?"

Once again there was silence, and then Fastahn began to speak, his voice low and trembling. "I did not know how powerful Khurintu’s attack would be. I did not know the strength of this Orthanc Fire." He looked up, guilt burning sharply within his eyes. "I had thought to force my tribe’s hand. Khesva wished to wait it out and deal with what came afterwards. I did not think we could do that, and so I made us a target. But it was so close to the time of the attack that I did not think we would receive much in the way of damage or injuries. I could not fathom what would come. I did not know the danger!"

"And yet you still managed to destroy over half your tribe’s delegation to the Gathering," Aragorn observed with deadly calm.

"I did not know!"

"I suspect that your superiors would be very interested to learn that you are responsible for Khesva’s death," Aragorn continued with a cold smile.

Fastahn stared at him.

"It is your choice," Aragorn concluded. "Aid us in restoring balance to the desert, or watch from the distance while swift hawks wing their way to the remainder of your tribal leaders with messages of what has happened."

Fastahn shook his head. "Honored one, you ask too much."

"I am not the one who made your tribe a target of Orthanc Fire."

"I did not know! I did not know what would happen!"

"But now you do, for King Elessar has informed you of what will happen," Eomer said, adding himself to the game.

Fastahn had the look of man caught between an angry Balrog and a charging Glorfindel. "My men are not trained as warriors," he protested weakly.

"You should have considered that ere you put your tribe on such a destructive path," Aragorn said.

Silence descended once more, staying for several minutes before Fastahn eventually dropped his eyes. "You give me little choice," he murmured. "But I will have you know that you send us to our deaths. We are not equipped for battle."

"You have already sent many of your kinsmen to their deaths," Aragorn responded sternly. "Do not seek to blame me. But as for this coming battle, I would not worry overmuch. I have something different in mind for you. Come," he said, turning to Budari and Arabano, both of whom looked mildly impressed. "Let us seek out Radarad and Joranen. It is time to prepare for war."

"I take it that you have a plan," Budari ventured.

"Not entirely," the king admitted. "But I have something resembling a plan. And for now—unless someone has something better to offer—that will have to do."

 

 

__

Pedo!—Speak!


	37. From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the insanely curious, heres an explanation for the word shiraj _as well as factoids on desert water-skin preparation techniques. In ancient Egypt, leather was either chamoised (made using oils) or tanned. Tanned leather was made using tannin taken from acacia pods, which resulted in a black, durable product. To turn this into a water-skin, a variety of oils and fats were worked into the leather to make it waterproof, and it is suspected that one of the oils used may have been sesame oil, or_ shiraj _. The fats and oils would block against liquid leakage, but water would still be able to evaporate out of the skin in the heat. Because of the energy used during evaporation, the water that did not evaporate (about two-thirds of it on long journeys) would stay relatively cool. Which is not only a necessity in desert travel but also a neat trick. Thought you might be interested._
> 
> Also, the title of this chapter was taken from something out of The Fellowship of the Ring _. Bonus points to any who can figure out where the phrase "from the ashes" comes from._

"You have something _resembling_ a plan?" Eomer’s subdued but skeptical tone spoke for all of them.

Aragorn’s lips twitched in what might have been a hidden smile. "That would be the most accurate description. At the very least, though, it is a far cry from what we had earlier."

Eomer did not look encouraged, and Arabano frowned in silent agreement. They could not afford to base their next actions on passing whims. They needed something solid upon which to build a strategy. Arabano would concede the point that they’d had nothing before meeting with Fastahn whereas now they had allies. Allies that their enemies did not know of. Allies that, in the case of the Warra tribe, had not been decimated by Orthanc Fire. These allies might very well prove to be the deciding factor in this game of plots against Asbad and the Khurintu tribe, but even so, they still needed a good plan.

"This may be an improvement on our situation, but our situation was dire and it remains so," Budari said, concurring with the unspoken protests of his second-in-command. "We require more than a mere improvement. We require power and the ability to display this power before all of Haradhur."

"And that is what Fastahn and the Soltari tribe shall provide," Aragorn answered, turning his head toward the temporary head of Soltari. Fastahn looked away and said nothing, doubtless still upset over the way Aragorn had blackmailed him into an alliance. "Fastahn?" Aragorn prompted, a hint of warning entering his voice.

"That which we can provide, you shall have," Fastahn murmured.

"Good. For the moment, then, you will lead Budari, Arabano, and myself to Joranen and Radarad. Then we shall all proceed to our encampment and speak more on these matters."

Arabano blinked and flicked a sideways glance at Eomer even as the king of Rohan cleared his throat. "I am not to accompany you?" Eomer asked with a challenging gaze.

"I had a different task in mind for you, if you are willing. Would you return to camp now and organize a search of the belongings? We need empty packs. Small ones, and as many as you can find. Perhaps some of the skins that carry perishable food would serve. The packs containing salves and medicines should also work."

"Packs," Eomer said flatly, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded. His voice took on a reflective tone, then, and it seemed as though he spoke to himself. "They will have to be altered, of course, but we can adjust them later when we know exactly how many will be used. We may even wish to…" The king trailed off and frowned, his eyes distant. "No, that cannot be put off until evening. It will have to be done now."

Arabano exchanged a discreet but confused glance with Budari. "Altering the packs cannot be put off?"

"No, that can certainly wait," Aragorn murmured. "But other matters should not." He was quiet for a moment, oblivious to the stares of his companions, and then he seemed to come to a decision. "Budari, I must request the use of your robes."

The group beneath the market building had been quiet to begin with, but now it became completely and utterly silent.

"My robes?" Budari questioned after a lengthy pause. It was becoming clear to Arabano that Aragorn’s _something resembling a plan_ was far more complicated than he’d led them to believe.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "Your outer robes, at least. Or if you are reluctant to part with your own, the robes of one of your guards would suffice. In fact, that would probably be best, for then I will not be marked as a leader."

Another confused silence ensued.

"Why?" Budari finally asked, and Arabano could hear frustration in his leader’s voice. He did not blame him, for Arabano was also becoming frustrated. They had been groping about blindly in the shadows, guessing at motives and plots, and now it felt as though they were still blind.

"I must see to something, and I would rather not be recognized as the king of Gondor," Aragorn said. "It will not take long. An hour, perhaps. And then I will join you at the encampment."

"Aragorn, we have not yet even determined if your wrist is broken or strained," Eomer broke in angrily. "If anything, you should return to camp with me and—"

"Whether my wrist is broken or not is of no consequence," the king of Gondor said sharply. "But our plans for tonight are. And unless I can assure myself of several suspicions, there will be no plans."

Eomer’s eyes were hard, but after a tense moment, he shook his head and looked away, his expression one of reluctant resignation. "You will have your own way, regardless of its folly. But will you at least tell us either your purpose or your destination?"

"Lotessa’s former camp."

"What can you possibly hope to find there?" Budari demanded, not quite ready to give up the fight.

"I would rather not say in the event that I am wrong and raise hopes needlessly. Should I be right, though, then you will have your answers in an hour." Glancing around at their faces, Aragorn’s eyes flashed. "One hour," he said softly. "No more than that. You have my word."

Life in the desert had taught Arabano to distrust everyone save those who had earned his loyalty beyond all doubt. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he found himself believing in this foreign king and according him the same respect he accorded Budari. Something about the man demanded fealty from those around him, and in spite of his desert upbringing, Arabano felt compelled to grant this fealty without question.

"I will hold you to that hour," Budari said after a tense moment. Turning away, he signaled to one of the guards that stood near the entrance of the market building. "Mahmara! _Ahta’ana ardit’ak idduun_." A brief moment of hesitation followed this order, and then the guard addressed began to shed his outer robes, leaving him clad in a light tunic. "I assume you shall want the scarves as well so as to cover your head," Budari said, taking the proffered robes from the guard.

"It would be appreciated," Aragorn answered.

Budari nodded and spoke to the guard again, quickly obtaining the long, intricate wrappings that were used as protection from the sun and from blowing sand. "You should not go alone," he cautioned, handing over the requested items.

"You think others might accost one of your tribe?" A challenging glint entered Aragorn’s eyes as he deftly wound the scarves about his head with his right hand. From his quick, confident movements, it was clear that he had done this before. "I was under the impression that Lotessa was feared and respected."

"And so we are, but much of that is because we do not take foolish risks," Budari said evenly as Gondor’s king donned the robes he’d been given, shrugging into them awkwardly with the use of only one hand. None stepped forward to help him, but Aragorn did not seem to be in any great need of assistance. At length, Budari frowned and sighed. "As you are intent upon this, Arabano shall accompany you."

Arabano flicked a quick glance at his leader and read the command hidden within his eyes – _Keep him safe and learn all you can of whatever he intends_. Arabano inclined his head in silent acknowledgement and then moved to stand slightly behind Aragorn. It was difficult to tell Aragorn’s feelings on the subject as his face was now mostly covered, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept them to himself and simply nodded. "Then we shall we go now. In one hour I will return to the camp." And ere anything more could be said, Aragorn walked out the entryway, passed the Lotessa guards, and melted into the shadows cast by the crowded buildings.

With a farewell look for his leader, Arabano hastened after him, taking care that his pace was quick but unhurried. Appearances were important in Haradhur, and the Lotessa tribe especially had to look strong this day. Fortunately for Arabano, Aragorn had slowed his own pace after leaving the building, and Arabano was able to catch up with him after a moment.

"You left rather abruptly, honored one," he observed.

"I have promised to spend only an hour on this venture," Aragorn answered, his long legs eating away at the ground as they made their way to the western side of the city.

"And then you shall return to camp," Arabano said, thinking back over the words that had been used. "I noted that you did not say _we_ shall return to camp. Was that by design?"

"It was," Aragorn conceded. "You have a sharp mind, Arabano."

"It is a necessary gift for those who lead in the desert, and it becomes useful when others attempt to deflect questions," Arabano said rather pointedly. "Why did you not say that _we_ will return to camp in an hour?"

"Because it is possible that I shall return alone. If we are fortunate, you may need to stay behind and gather supplies."

Arabano frowned. "But what supplies must we gather while the sun is still overhead, honored one? If you wish to search for weapons that may have escaped the blast, we can easily do so at sunset. We need not risk the heat of the day. Even should they race to get here, Khurintu is far enough away that we will have several hours of night ere they are upon us."

"Our strategy may depend upon how many weapons we can recover, and I wish to finalize our plans as soon as possible. Several hours we may have, but I would use them to set our position rather than to search for weapons."

Arabano shook his head and decided that Aragorn would have made an excellent tribal leader. His curt answers satisfied the questions asked but revealed no more than that. Arabano now knew that they were searching for weapons, but he still did not understand why they had to do so now. Surely the difference of a few swords and spears would not drastically alter Aragorn’s plans for the evening. Something else was intended, yet—

"Walk ahead of me," Aragorn suddenly hissed, his pace slackening.

Realizing that they were approaching Haradhur’s western gate, Arabano stepped in front of Aragorn and took the lead. The intricate detail of his headscarves clearly set him apart as Lotessa’s second-in-command, but Aragorn’s scarves were simple and only sparingly adorned, marking him as a common guard. It would look odd for Aragorn to precede Arabano as though he was his better.

Coming to the gate itself, Arabano nodded curtly to the Gartabo guards, never slowing his pace. Their eyes were grim beneath their scarves but they made no move to stop or question him. It seemed that Lotessa’s authority still held. At least, it did for those in positions of power. Arabano was quick to note the way the guards’ eyes followed Aragorn, who now walked with his head down and his shoulders slightly stooped. But the act was convincing enough to pass muster, and the two soon stepped out of the city and into the desert.

Once clear of the shade, the full strength of the sun’s gaze hit them hard. The sand itself was a carpet of hot coals beneath their feel while the air was still and stifling. Once again, Arabano wondered what Aragorn could need so urgently that would drive him into this heat. The Gathering was held during the hottest days of summer so as to minimize movement during the day. It was not wise to challenge the sun, especially around the noon hour. But Aragorn said nothing of turning back, so Arabano—accustomed to even hotter days thanks to a childhood in the southernmost stretches of the desert—continued onward.

Beneath the fierce glare of daylight, the charred remains of the former camp were easy to see. Arabano had not fully understood the extent of the damage during the dark hours of morning, but he was now treated to a sight that wound hound his dreams for years to come. Bodies and body parts, burned beyond recognition, littered the ground. Some of the remains were so badly mangled that Arabano could not discern whether they belonged to man or horse. A thin haze of smoke hung over the destruction, and the smell of seared flesh gave rise to a burning in the back of Arabano’s throat.

"Perhaps you should remain here and keep watch whilst I search."

Suddenly aware that he’d stopped walking, Arabano closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed the bile that filled his mouth. Grief for his kinsmen rippled angrily beneath the surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it to one side. Now was the time for vengeance. The time for tears would come later. "I am well, honored one," he said thickly. "And this will go more swiftly if two participate, especially since you do not have the use of your left hand. For what do we seek?"

"You are certain you wish to proceed?"

The sympathy in Aragorn’s voice was difficult to hear, but by now, Arabano had regained control of his thoughts and favored the other man was a sharp look. "For what do we seek?" he asked again.

Aragorn’s eyes flickered with something that Arabano did not recognize, and then he nodded, moving forward briskly. "We seek packs."

Arabano felt as though they had just traveled a very large and senseless circle. "Packs? Is not the Honored Eomer tending to that portion of your plan?"

"As I said before, it is not entirely a plan," Aragorn answered, weaving his way through the mangled, twisted remnants of blackened tent supports. "Not yet. And the packs we seek are somewhat larger than the packs Eomer seeks."

"Then these packs are of a particular kind?" Arabano asked, forcing himself to maintain his focus despite the burning in his eyes.

"They are. They will be leather, and they will probably have been treated with _shiraj_ at some point in time."

Arabano blinked. " _Shiraj_?"

"Yes," Aragorn answered, kneeling to sift through a pile of debris. "That is still how you prepare your water-skins, is it not?"

"It is," Arabano said slowly, unsure of how this was important. "Then we seek packs capable of holding water?"

"They could hold water, certainly, but you would not wish to use these packs for such a purpose. Not if you intended to drink the water."

And at that point, Arabano came to the sudden conclusion that Aragorn was deliberately baiting him. It seemed an unlikely prospect, for the man was under the sun in the heat of the day, injured, missing two companions he accounted close friends, and unaware of the location of five of his fellow king’s riders. Nevertheless, it felt as though Aragorn had put aside his own concerns and was now trying to distract Arabano with elusive, almost teasing answers. It was a subtle diversion to his grief that did not directly insult his pride, and Arabano's spirits lifted slightly even as he was hit with a swell of gratitude. If Aragorn’s mind was clear enough for this, then it was probably clear enough to develop a workable plan for the night.

"Could I drink water from these packs if I was in dire need?" Arabano asked, deciding to play along with the game. He suspected that the distraction worked both ways.

"Your need would be even more dire afterwards." Aragorn’s voice moved off to one side, and Arabano heard him wander to a different section of the ruined camp. "And it is unlikely that these packs will ever contain water, so there would be no use in going to them for drink."

Arabano grimaced as he gingerly moved aside what might once have been a horse’s foreleg. "Did these packs contain water in the past?"

"Doubtful, but I suppose it is possible. They certainly did not contain water in the recent past, though. Ah!"

Arabano looked up quickly and saw Aragorn on his knees, pushing aside the remains of a collapsed tent. He was using both hands now, and the scarves had fallen away from the lower portion of his face to reveal a grimace of pain. But that did not stop him, and fearful that the sun’s heat might be having an adverse affect on his companion, Arabano hastened over.

He stopped short when Aragorn pulled a leather pack out of the ashes, his hands dusted with a fine layer of black powder.

"This is what we seek," Aragorn said, his eyes gleaming. "We will not find much, but Valar willing, I think we will find enough. And perhaps we may find some in the camps of Soltari and Portu as well."

Speechless with sudden understanding, Arabano felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

* * * *

The sun was near its zenith by the time Dashnir shoved aside the flaps of the tent that he was to share with Asbad. His morning had been spent organizing the men that would accompany him in the search for the elf and dwarf and calming the horses, who had been upset by the elf’s song and the subsequent explosions. Following that, he had spent time with the healer in seeing to the injured, both those that had come with him when leaving Haradhur and those that had been wounded when the elf and dwarf escaped Asbad’s company. Dashnir’s robes were now blackened with powder, and the smell of smoke followed him like a second shadow, a dark reminder that things had not gone entirely as planned. Dashnir’s mood had been grim when he learned of the prisoners’ escape, but it had grown even worse after dealing with the consequences of that escape. If the day were not so hot, he might have been tempted to ride out after the elf and the dwarf immediately so that he could have time to thoroughly teach them what it meant to defy the Khurintu tribe.

"All is in readiness?"

Dashnir flinched in surprise, and his head shot up, looking around the interior of the tent. Asbad had retired hours ago, and Dashnir had not expected to find him awake. He certainly had not expected to find him sitting calmly in a corner of the tent cleaning his sword. Asbad’s quick, sure motions over the curved blade paused for a moment, and Dashnir realized that his leader was waiting for a response. With a quick nod, he lowered the protective scarves from his face, wiping sweat off his brow as he did so. "Yes, honored one. I have selected the men who are to accompany me, and I have also seen to the horses and the injured. All are settled for the day."

Asbad shifted his sword across his lap and began cleaning the hilt guard, never once looking up from his work. "What tidings can you give me of the wounded?"

"The healer has been to all of them," Dashnir said as a slight twinge of concern entered his mind. Asbad had yet to look away from his sword, and the avoidance of eye contact was unusual. "One shall have to lose a leg, two shall never walk again, and there is concern about blood loss in a fourth. All others should recover with time."

"How many dead?"

"Twenty-three, honored one." Somehow, Dashnir managed to bite back his anger as he said it. "That number includes those killed in Haradhur as well as those killed here this morning."

"Twenty-three." Asbad’s hands paused again on the sword, but he still did not look up. "That is a respectable number for two injured prisoners. I had not expected the elf and dwarf to be so…formidable."

Dashnir pressed his lips together and studied the other man as silence fell between them. "Honored one, what troubles you?" he finally asked, unable to decipher the cause of his leader’s reticence. "You are not sleeping, yet it seems to me that you are not truly awake, either."

"Perhaps that is because I am attempting to wake."

"Attempting to wake?" Dashnir frowned, confused by his leader’s choice of words, until an unwelcome thought flitted through his mind. "Do you speak of _ma’awnwa_? Does the elf’s shadow troubles you still?"

"You warned me of this, did you not?" Asbad set his sword to one side and finally looked up at Dashnir, his dark eyes hard in the filtered light of the tent. "You warned me of what a shadow strong enough to block an elf would do to a man."

"Yes, but the elf is gone and you are still suffering, honored one."

"If I remember events aright, you were not entirely yourself when you arrived this morning. Perhaps the shadow lingers even though the elf no longer accompanies me."

Dashnir felt his temper rise slightly. "I apologize again for slighting your authority, honored one, but given the circumstances, I think my actions can be explained without reference to the shadow over the elf."

"Indeed?" Asbad’s look became sharp and piercing. "You are a shrewd and decisive man, Dashnir, and I have come to value these traits in you. But this morning, you faltered. You thought of the past and what should have been done. You grieved over possible mistakes that cannot be altered now. You doubted your actions, and you doubted our ability to overcome setbacks. That is not like you, Dashnir."

Looking back over his actions and thoughts, Dashnir found himself confronted with the uncomfortable fact that he could not refute this. It was something of a surprise, and he took a moment to ponder what this might mean before speaking again. "Do you believe that we still labor beneath a shadow?"

Asbad’s eyes narrowed and he studied his second-in-command. "Nay," he said at length. "Nay, the shadow is passing. Your anger and willingness to defend your actions are indicative of your freedom from this shadow."

Dashnir frowned. "The shadow is passing, you say, but does this not imply that a part of it lingers still?"

Asbad reached out and sheathed his sword, never once taking his eyes away from Dashnir. "Yes. A portion of the shadow remains, and I suspect that shall be the case until the elf dies, I die, or the shadow is lifted. I would have you remember this when you pursue the elf and dwarf this night. Watch your actions and your thoughts carefully."

"Of course, honored one," Dashnir murmured, troubled in spite of himself. _We did not adequately study_ ma’awnwa _and what effect it would have upon an elf. We trusted too much in our strength and the strength of our forefathers. What have we unleashed?_

Silence fell between them once more, and then Asbad gestured to Dashnir’s pallet, indicating that he should sit. "As we are both awake, I think it best to hear an accounting of your actions in Haradhur now rather than later."

Dashnir was still trying to puzzle his way through the mysteries of _ma’awnwa_ , but recognizing that time was moving forward and that they would soon need to sleep if they wished all to go well tonight, he nodded and began his report. "All went as planned with the exception of three incidents," he said, easing himself down onto his pallet. "The first took place during the afternoon ere we left. I received a visit from Radarad of the Portu tribe. He was threatening to confront Joranen of Warra regarding the details of our alliance."

"I am surprised he did not threaten to do so earlier," Asbad mused quietly. "Your response?"

"I warned him against such foolish action," Dashnir said. "And I also had the black powder planted throughout the Portu encampment. They suffered the same the blow that Lotessa suffered last night."

Asbad nodded thoughtfully. "I wondered if such action would need to be taken. Portu was growing restless. You did well. What of the other two incidents?"

"One I spoke of earlier this morning, and that was the small number of Rohirrim who followed us into the desert. As I said before, there were initially ten behind us, but toward the end of the night, only five remained. In thinking back on it, it is possible that some of them followed the contingent that I sent north to Lake Nurnein. I thought to advise the traders from Umbar that our shipments to them would be delayed at least one day and that they would receive the elf with the sulfur and the saltpeter."

Asbad’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers began tapping against the sheathed sword at his side. "Would these Rohirrim have been clever enough to listen to any conversations that took place between our men and those of Umbar?"

"I do not believe so, honored one," Dashnir said, having already considered this possibility. "There were only five Rohirrim, and our men would have dispatched them upon reaching Nurnein."

"We must hope that proves to be the case," Asbad said coolly. "If not, we may have tipped our hand too early. Gondor and Rohan know of our animosity, but they do not yet know of Umbar’s growing forces. Nor do they know of Umbar’s weapon. If the riders who pursued our men to Nurnein learn of these things and then journey to Gondor, we lose the advantage of surprise."

"Even if the Rohirrim still live and have learned of our plans, they will return to Haradhur rather than to Gondor," Dashnir said with a shake of his head. "Their loyalty to one another and to their king is too great. They will not leave him alone in the desert."

Asbad did not look entirely convinced, but he did not pursue the matter. "And what of the last incident?"

"The last incident involves the Soltari tribe," Dashnir said, trying to think of a way to phrase this.

"The Soltari tribe? How have they become involved?"

"I am not entirely convinced that they are involved," Dashnir said slowly. "But Fastahn certainly was."

" _Was_?" Asbad’s voice was tight, and his eyes were hooded as he watched his second-in-command.

" _Iluh_ willing," Dashnir murmured. "Fastahn came to me yesterday afternoon shortly after my discussion with Radarad. He revealed that he knew the identity of the Destroyer and bargained for the freedom of the Soltari tribe. I would have killed him then, but he warned that his tribe was awaiting his return." Dashnir frowned and looked away. "I do not know if he spoke truly in this matter. In fact, it occurs to me now that he was probably acting alone. Khesva would not have permitted Soltari’s fate to rest on the shoulders of Fastahn. He would have sent another. Still, the fact that Fastahn knew that you posed as the Destroyer, honored one, was a danger I could not overlook, regardless of how much his tribe knew or guessed."

Asbad was completely still save for a small tick in his cheek. "And your actions?"

"The Soltari tribe was targeted last night along with Portu and Lotessa."

Asbad murmured something too low for Dashnir to make out, but it sounded very much like a curse. "If the leaders did not die in the explosion and they did indeed know that I was the Destroyer, they will not hesitate to bring this before the Gathering."

"Who would believe them?" Dashnir asked, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Our relationships with Soltari have been driven by necessity. They are not friendly with us and we are not friendly with them. Moreover, their trade preferences are usually for Lotessa rather than for us. Aulit and the rest of the council will see this as another step in the rivalry."

"It was a dangerous move."

"We have already made many dangerous moves."

"You should not have acted so rashly. We should have allowed them their bargain and then destroyed them later after securing our hold on the desert."

"Had I allowed them to survive the night, they might have viewed it as their duty to take action against the destruction of the other two tribes," Dashnir argued, confident of his reasoning. "Khesva can be a sentimental fool. Hopefully, he is now a dead sentimental fool." He drew himself upright on his pallet, meeting Asbad’s eyes boldly. "Censure me if you wish, honored one, but I stand by my decision. Soltari shall not prove a danger for us. They will be too scattered, and any action they attempt now will have to be along the lines of a warrior. Soltari is not a tribe of warriors."

Asbad’s eyes narrowed, but at length he blinked and the tension seemed to break. "I suppose it shall not be too great a trial to find some reason for why the Soltari tribe was made a part of the Destroyer’s wrath," he murmured. "I shall consider what must be said. But we will speak of this again. I do no think it was wisely done." He paused, his face taking on an intense look. "What men have you chosen to go with you this night?"

"I had thought to take those that are still hale and that accompanied you when you took the elf and dwarf prisoner," Dashnir answered. "They shall be more accustomed to their defenses should we be forced to subdue them. But if you would rather I take others, I am certain that something could be arranged."

"Nay, you are welcome to those men," Asbad said, shaking his head. "Be wary, though, and watch them closely. Those men experienced the shadow as intensely as I and are only now recovering. As you draw closer to the elf, the shadow will resume. But as you say, those men will be most accustomed to it." He sighed, the intensity leaving his face. "And now I believe that we should retire for the day. We must address our companies ere we depart, and I wish to leave just prior to sunset. That will enable us to maintain a reasonable pace for the horses and arrive with energy left for the battle."

"That is when I should also leave, for if I wish to find my charges and bring them both to Haradhur ere the sun rises too high for travel, I shall have to move quickly and soon," Dashnir added. Dipping his head in lieu of a bow, he stretched out on his pallet and forced himself to relax. "I wish you a good day, honored one," he murmured, closing his eyes. "May the _Iluh_ guard your dreams."

"We are the _Iluh_ now, Dashnir," Asbad answered, and sounds from his direction indicated that he was settling down upon his own pallet. "And by this time tomorrow, all of Haradhur shall know it."

* * * *

It was entirely possible that Eomer had endured situations far more uncertain than the one created by his current companions, but at the moment, he could not think of any.

He was leaning against a wall in one of the buildings where Gondor, Rohan, and Lotessa had chosen to make camp. To his right, Budari stood silent and solemn, his eyes fixed upon the tribal leaders Joranen and Radarad, who stood a few feet away on Eomer’s left. For their part, Joranen and Radarad spent their time staring back at Budari while also including Eomer and Fastahn. Fastahn had withdrawn to a dark corner and was avoiding eye contact, but he would occasionally mutter darkly to himself when he thought no one was paying attention. The feeling of tension was palpable, and all others were giving the five men a wide berth. Near Fastahn’s corner lay a growing collection of empty packs, and the men who brought in additional packs moved swiftly and said nothing, disappearing as quickly as they had come.

Eomer had tried to draw upon his experiences with Wormtongue when it became evident that little would be accomplished until Aragorn joined them, but he could find naught in the past to help him now. When dealing with Wormtongue, there had been no possibility of cooperation or compromise, even in the initial years. Eomer and Gríma had never seen eye to eye on anything, and their relationship had begun with thinly veiled hostility that eventually transformed into overt disdain and loathing. But here, there was the possibility of an uneasy alliance, and Eomer was unsure of how to proceed. He was not a man who worked well in the gray areas. He was either friend or foe, ally or enemy. When he gave his trust, he gave it wholeheartedly, and when he gave his hatred, he did so with a vengeance. He could do neither now, and both his unease and his impatience were growing rapidly.

"It has been nearly an hour."

The silence within the group had been just as thick as the tension, and when that silence broke, the tension seemed to explode as though wishing to compensate. Budari instantly became the center of attention, and even Fastahn stopped his muttering long enough to look up and stare at Lotessa’s leader.

"Then he will be here shortly," Eomer said quietly, curbing his own restlessness.

"And he has a plan?" Joranen asked, his voice curt and abrupt.

Fastahn and Budari both looked at Eomer, who wisely decided that the assurance of _something resembling a plan_ would not be well received. "We would not have brought you here otherwise," Eomer answered with more calm than he felt. _Do not make a liar of me, Aragorn!_

Joranen sniffed and looked away. Radarad shifted uncomfortably as though he wished to speak, but he said nothing. Budari gave Eomer a meaningful glance and went back to staring at the other two leaders. Fastahn resumed staring at nothing. Eomer lifted his shoulders in a silent sigh and tried to keep an eye on all of them.

__

This would be easier if I was not so uncertain myself, he decided grimly, his mind straying to thoughts of Gimli, Legolas, and his five missing riders.

Gimli and Legolas were actually somewhat of a manageable distraction. During the last years of Wormtongue’s lecherous counsel, captains and sometimes entire companies would often turn up missing, and Eomer had learned not to dwell overmuch on their fate until something definitive could be done about it. Thus, thoughts of Gimli and Legolas were not difficult to put aside, thought it pained him to do so. The elf was a trusted ally, and during the seven years Gimli had ruled the dwarves in Aglarond, he had become a valued friend and confidant. But as Eomer could do nothing for them at the moment, he stilled his continuing worry and put it to one side.

Arhelm and the other missing Rohirrim, though, were another matter altogether.

Eomer was well aware that he could do nothing for them now, but the circumstances surrounding their disappearance were slightly different than the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Gimli and Legolas. The Rohirrim had not been abducted in the night from the supposed safety of the camp. Rather, they had been aware of the danger into which they rode, and they had been armed and prepared for that danger. Five of the ten riders had come back, but the other five… Why had they separated? Arhelm should have known better. And after they separated, what had become of them? Based on statements from Budari and Aragorn, it was likely that Eos and his men had followed the main Khurintu group. If Arhelm and his riders had followed a smaller group, then the danger would have been less for them. So why had they not returned? Was there a second army? Had they become lost in the desert? Did Khurintu have other allies? Eomer shook his head. The absence of Gimli and Legolas was distressing, but it did not raise the questions that the absence of the riders raised. And Eomer was beginning to hate questions, especially those he could not answer. _If Arhelm survives this, he will find himself mucking out stalls for the remainder of my reign_.

Struggling to direct his thoughts back to his current companions, Eomer shifted his gaze from Budari to Joranen, and as he did so, he caught sight of one of his men approaching them. Pushing away from the wall at his back, Eomer stepped forward and the rider stopped, bowed slightly, and then nodded toward the open square beyond the building.

"Something of interest, Honored Eomer?" Budari asked, once again breaking the stillness and becoming the center of attention.

"I believe so," Eomer answered, taking a few steps toward the entrance and peering into the blinding sunlight. His eyes passed over a few guards hovering in the shade of the buildings and came to rest on the lone figure skirting the edge of the shadows. "It seems that King Elessar has returned."

This caused a stir in the previously silent group, and it gave Eomer some consolation to know that he had not been alone in his impatience. Tracking the movements of his companions through sound, he turned the rest of his focus back to Aragorn, and frowned as he watched his progress. The king of Rohan was not a healer, but he was a horseman. He had learned to determine much from strides, and if Aragorn had been a stallion, Eomer would have said that he was moments away from going lame.

Much of Aragorn’s strain seemed to come from a heavy pack cradled in his right arm, and upon seeing this, Eomer moved forward, intending to relieve the other of his burden. Stepping out of the building, he blinked rapidly at the sudden increase of light, and when his vision had cleared, he saw that Aragorn had left the shadows and was now walking toward him. Eomer opened his mouth to offer a greeting and also to demand that Aragorn relinquish the pack, but at that moment, Aragorn drew close for Eomer to recognize what it was that he carried. And all words fled.

_Orthanc Fire!_

"I trust I am not late," Aragorn said.

Eomer shook his head silently and stared at Aragorn’s pack, noting the thin dusting of black powder upon the borrowed Lotessa robes. All thoughts of taking this pack from Aragorn had vanished along with all thoughts of Aragorn’s injuries. The notion that they might have just acquired another advantage was staggering.

"You approve, then?" Aragorn asked, and in his voice was a hint of amusement.

"Most assuredly," Eomer whispered. "Orthanc Fire! But how in Béma’s name did you come by this?"

"I promise to answer that question, but first I would step inside. The sun is unforgiving this day."

Suddenly aware of the fiery heat upon his brow, Eomer pushed his shock away and quickly composed himself. "Yes, of course. Come. The other leaders have gathered and will doubtless with to hear this tale. You arrive in good time, my friend."

"And by that, I assume that our alliances are somewhat tentative," Aragorn guessed shrewdly.

"That would be a mild way of putting it," Eomer said, lowering his voice. They reached the building and ducked inside, at which point Eomer realized that Aragorn was still carrying the pack. "Let me take that. Seek out water, and I will inform the leaders that you will join us shortly."

"I thank you," Aragorn said, handing over his burden and startling Eomer with his willingness to give it up. "But water will have to wait for another time. We must speak with the others immediately."

Eomer began to protest and insist that Aragorn take a moment to recover from the hour spent beneath the sun. But even as he opened his mouth to speak, the grim realization came to him that Aragorn was right. Time was running out, and they could not afford to stop now. Not until cooperation was assured and plans were set in motion. So Eomer motioned one of his riders over, procured a water-skin, and then followed Aragorn over to the other leaders.

It was, of course, Budari who spoke first. "Where is Arabano?"

Accepting the water-skin from Eomer with a grateful look, Aragorn took a quick drink and then answered. "I suspect he is at the remains of the Soltari camp by now."

This mention of his ruined camp managed to break through the walls of grief and fear that had fallen upon Fastahn, and he stepped forward, eyes flashing. "What purpose does he have there?"

"He searches for more of what I have brought," Aragorn said, motioning to Eomer. Dutifully taking his cue, Eomer let the sack of powder swing forward, gently setting it on the floor in their midst. "I believe that Budari will recognize this."

Judging from his sudden stillness, Budari did indeed recognize the powder. His movements slow and deliberate, he bent down and ran one hand lightly over the bag. "This weapon can be used more than once, then?" he murmured at length. "We can gather what Khurintu used?"

Aragorn shook his head. "It is similar to wood in a fire. The powder is consumed by the flames and cannot be used again."

Budari frowned and straightened. "Then how—"

"For myself, I would like to know what this is," Joranen broke in sternly. "And why it is of such import that we were forced to wait for its arrival."

"It produces Orthanc Fire," Eomer said quietly. "That is our name for the flames in the desert last night. This powder caused that."

Despite the tension, Eomer almost laughed aloud when Fastahn and Radarad took a fairly large step back. "This powder is capable of setting fire to an entire camp?" Radarad demanded, his eyes wide.

"Several packs of powder set in different places have that capability, yes," Aragorn said. "When this powder comes in contact with fire…something happens. I am not entirely sure how it works. Even the dwarves have no sure explanation for it. But the result is the fires you witnessed last night. We have seen it used before in the north."

"When we met earlier, Arabano insisted that Khurintu had engineered the fires," Joranen murmured, moving closer to the pack. "But I did not fully believe him."

"I would offer a demonstration, but I do not wish to draw attention at the moment," Aragorn said.

"Understandable."

"You say that this powder is consumed in the fires?" Radarad asked, still keeping his distance from the pack. "If that is the case, then how is it that some was found in Lotessa’s camp?"

"Because not all of it came into contact with fire," Aragorn said. "Were it otherwise, then Budari, Eomer, and I would not be here now."

"The guard!" Eomer exclaimed, feeling foolish for not having seen this earlier. "I guessed what he held, and we went to examine the pack to be certain. We were still very close to that pack when the first of the explosions struck the camp. We should not have survived."

"No, we should not have," Aragorn agreed. "Which is why I suspected that this pack did not explode. The fires never touched it. Nor is it the only one to have survived. Khurintu planned their attack well, but their archers could not hit every pack of powder and they could not hit them all at once. This meant that some packs were missed outright while others were thrown aside by the first explosions. The heat probably ignited some regardless of their position and doubtless others were thrown into fire and then exploded, but this was not the case for all. The pack you see here was but the first we found. Ere our search was over, Arabano and I discovered two more packs buried beneath the ashes." Aragorn stopped and turned to Budari. "Arabano asks that you send men to join him in his search, for he cannot bring all the packs in alone and he does not wish to seem burdened as he walks through the city. He will wait in the Soltari camp for them and once finished there, they shall conclude their search in Portu’s camp."

"I will send men now," Budari said, moving away to summon Lotessa’s guards.

"It is fortunate that we have a weapon capable of such power," Joranen said slowly, and Eomer felt a slight chill creep down his spine at the choice of words. "But how shall we use it? Khurintu was able to plant it among camps and then strike from a distance at their leisure. We have not that luxury. Khurintu’s camp is gone."

"Khurintu’s camp may be gone, but there are other camps we might use for the same purpose," Aragorn answered.

"You mean to attack the other tribes?" Fastahn demanded.

"Those were not my words," Aragorn said sternly, a hard light entering his eyes. "I observed that there were camps in which we might place Orthanc Fire, but I did not say that these camps would belong to other tribes. Or that they would be occupied."

"You mean to use Warra’s camp," Eomer suddenly realized, his mind clicking rapidly. "And you mean to insist upon your plans for an ambush."

"We have the numbers for it now."

Eomer frowned. He did not completely agree with that assessment, but Joranen spoke up before he could say aught. "What is this of my camp? You would seek to use this Orthanc Fire within it?"

Aragorn began to answer but Budari chose that moment to return. "Why do we speak of Orthanc Fire in the Warra camp?" he demanded.

Tension was rising swiftly now, and Eomer found himself reflexively clutching his sword hilt. Forcing his hands to relax, he took a step closer to Aragorn.

"If you will permit me to explain, I will do so," Aragorn said, his voice sharp and commanding. "A moment of patience is all I require." He paused, his eyes sweeping the room, and then he continued in a softer tone. "Earlier this morning, Budari, Eomer, and I discussed possible courses of action and I broached the idea that we might set an ambush for Khurintu using the walls of Haradhur. Eomer and Budari disagreed, staging that we had not the forces for such a tactic, and at that moment, they were right. But that has changed now. Not only do we have sufficient men to attempt an ambush, but we have sufficient men to put the Orthanc Fire to good use."

"In my camp," Joranen said flatly.

"I am coming to that," Aragorn said. "Patience and I will explain. I propose that Gondor, Rohan, and Lotessa wait for Khurintu’s coming without Haradhur’s walls. We should position ourselves halfway between the eastern gate and the Warra encampment. Joranen, come evening, you will position your men inside the city just beyond the eastern gate. Radarad will do likewise."

"When Khurintu arrives, they shall see only those that they expect to see," Budari said with a nod. "But how does the Soltari tribe and the Orthanc Fire fit into this plan?"

"This is where the Warra encampment shall come into play," Aragorn explained. His voice was still calm but there was a slight flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and Eomer sensed that they had come to the point in which the plan became _something resembling a plan_. And if Eomer’s suspicions about where this was going proved correct, then he agreed. This was the most tentative and dangerous aspect of the plan. "At sunset, the Warra tribe will evacuate their camp but they will leave the tents and enough supplies so as to give the illusion that they have not left. The uninjured men of the Soltari tribe shall then occupy the camp. They shall place the Orthanc Fire about the perimeter and wait. We will position ourselves in such a way that Khurintu shall have to pass near the Warra camp in order to reach us. As they do so, Gondor, Rohan, and Lotessa will ride out to meet them. They will not be expecting such a move, and if we time our actions correctly, we will push them back toward the Warra encampment. Their flanks will hopefully be within the camp itself." 

Radarad favored Aragorn with a penetrating gaze. "And the moment Khurintu is pushed back into the tents, Soltari shall clear away and light the Orthanc Fire."

"Exactly," Aragorn said. He fixed his eyes on the pack he had found. "It is my belief that Khurintu shall come bearing more Orthanc Fire and that it shall be placed in the back of their forces. If our timing is accurate and Soltari does its job well, we will destroy both the Khurintu rearguard and their own supply of Orthanc Fire. The explosions will be the signal for Warra and Portu to exit the city and join the attack. Hopefully, the confusion caused by Orthanc Fire will be enough for our forces to rout Khurintu." Aragorn looked up, his eyes dark. "I make you no promises and no assurances. I believe this to be our best chance of success. Asbad and Dashnir will anticipate other attacks, but if we choose an unexpected and more dangerous strategy, it may serve to undermine their careful plans. Gondor, at least, will be outside Haradhur tonight in support of this plan. The choice to join me is yours."

Silence fell, and though Aragorn did not physically move, Eomer received the impression that he was backing away, awaiting the responses of the others. Under different circumstances, Eomer would have chosen this moment to step forward and state that Rohan stood with Gondor. But he hesitated, troubled by things he had heard and things that were even now occurring to him. Whatever the others chose, Rohan would accompany Gondor this night; there was little doubt of that. But Eomer wished to make his reservations known before committing his men to such an act, and so he decided to wait before voicing his support.

Thus it was once again Budari who first broke the silence. "The plan has many risks. How can we trust that a sudden offensive will push Khurintu close enough to the Warra camp to be caught in an explosion? And how can we trust Fastahn’s people to light the Orthanc Fire. He has already betrayed them. Why should he not betray us as well?"

"I did not know the consequences would be so great," Fastahn snapped. "My betrayal was not a willful act of destruction but rather an attempt to persuade."

"And perhaps in betraying us, you will attempt to persuade Khurintu," Budari challenged. "Perhaps you seek a bargain with them."

"Asbad does not bargain with traitors," Radarad said quietly. "I believe that Fastahn knows this. And if he does not, the Portu tribe shall make him aware of it."

"I am already aware of it," Fastahn muttered darkly. "Do not concern yourselves with my tribe or our part in this. We can assume the guise of the Warra tribe, and we can fire arrows into the Orthanc Fire as we depart."

__

Which amounts to tacit support of Aragorn’s plan, Eomer noted. _And based on his words, it seems as though Radarad also supports us. But he and Fastahn are both here under duress. They will not survive otherwise. I suspect that Budari will voice support for the same reason and now only seeks to make certain of his allies. The true challenge shall be Joranen, for his forces are still at full strength. He has not yet reached the point of desperation._

"Even if Fastahn speaks truly and the Orthanc Fires rise, there are still great risks," Budari said, turning his attention back to Aragorn. "Confusion and loss of men may not be enough to give us the advantage. Asbad recovers quickly from setbacks."

"He does, and if confusion is not enough, then we will perish," Aragorn said simply. "And perhaps hindsight will say that we should have taken a safer road and hidden ourselves within Haradhur. But if we do so, we will only be playing into their hands. They will have the ability to lay Orthanc Fire as they see fit and to spread even more rumors about Haradhur. Khurintu _expects_ us to hide. But with the plan I propose, we can turn their own weapons back on them. Even if nothing else comes of it, the sight of Orthanc Fire acting against Khurintu in Warra’s camp will combat the rumors that have been spread and prevent Khurintu from taking control of Harad should we fail." He paused, his eyes grim but determined. "Even if we die, we will win."

" _You_ will win," Joranen corrected, his eyes shadowed and his voice hard. " _You_ will win in that you will prevent Khurintu from gaining control of Harad and uniting the tribes against your northern countries. But if we die with you in the midst of Orthanc Fire, who looks to our people? The remaining tribes in Haradhur may believe that the _Iluh_ acted against all of us, and if this belief persists, then our tribes will be hunted down for fear that the wrath of the _Iluh_ might spread to others."

"Your tribes will be hunted down if Khurintu triumphs, and Khurintu will most assuredly triumph if we continue to do what they expect us to do," Aragorn argued.

"Perhaps," Joranen conceded, "but I am not convinced that an alliance with you shall make the difference. You have said already that you have no promises and no assurances. Why, then, should I become involved here? Why should I not trust in my own people? It seems that you need my aid far more than I need yours."

Aragorn studied the man for a long moment and Eomer found himself holding his breath. Not out of tension or uncertainty, but out of a need to stay quiet. The urge to cry out and force Joranen to see reason was overwhelming.

"If we drive Khurintu back, their power will diminish," Aragorn said at length. "You wish to take their place as the dominant northern tribe." He nodded his head slowly. "Gondor shall not stand in your way. We will recognize your authority insofar as your authority does not overreach its bounds."

"Trade routes might become uncertain for a time if we force a change in leadership," Joranen warned, his voice challenging. "What says Gondor to that?"

"That change can be both a good thing and a bad thing," Aragorn said evenly.

That elicited a smile from Joranen. "Wisely spoken, and worthy of an ally. Done, then. The Warra tribe stands with you."

A hint of a smile ghosted over Aragorn’s face, and he turned his attention to Budari and Eomer, raising a questioning brow.

"As all seem agreed, Lotessa shall also join you," Budari said. "But we must speak further on strategy and timing. I will not let this fall to chance."

"Agreed," Aragorn said. "Eomer?"

"You will always have Rohan’s support," Eomer said quietly.

Aragorn paused and his eyes narrowed, but then he nodded and turned back to the other leaders. "Then if that we are all agreed, our first task will be to choose areas of attack. To that end, if would be well if men from Lotessa and Portu scouted the eastern wall and found a place that will force Khurintu near the Warra encampment and also allow those behind the wall to join us quickly after the blast. Fastahn, you will need to ready your own people to move into the Warra camp. Joranen, you must make room for them."

"We will begin these preparations now," Budari said, already moving away. "Let us meet later this afternoon to further set our plans."

There were murmurs of acknowledgement from the others and they followed Budari’s lead, eventually leaving Aragorn and Eomer alone. An uncomfortable silence ensued, and Eomer found himself casting about for ways in which to break it. "How fares your arm?" he finally asked.

"You do not wish to know about my arm."

Eomer blinked at this rebuff. "You doubt my concern?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No, but my arm is not foremost on your mind. Rather, you wish to question this plan but are waiting until others will not hear us. Speak now, then. I believe we have a few moments."

Someday in the future, Eomer vowed that he would achieve the subtly necessary to outmaneuver Aragorn in a conversation. But as he did not seem to have that ability now, he forged ahead, willing to concede this round. "Joranen desires power," he said flatly. "Think you that revealing Orthanc Fire to him was a wise decision?"

"Under the circumstances, I think it was unavoidable."

"He will try to secure some for himself."

"I would be surprised if he did not. I would be surprised if any of them did not."

"And this does not concern you?" Eomer demanded. "We are giving them a dangerous weapon."

"They do not know how to create more, and Valar willing, they shall remain ignorant," Aragorn answered. "I do share your fear, Eomer, but at the moment, compromises must be made."

Eomer frowned. "We still know nothing of my missing riders. Or the degree of Umbar’s involvement. Or of Legolas and Gimli. What if they are brought to Haradhur and ride behind Khurintu? They will be caught in the blast if the plan goes forward."

"I also share your concerns," Aragorn said quietly. "But we can do nothing for the riders, and we must deal with Umbar when they present themselves. As for Legolas and Gimli…" Aragorn’s jaw tightened slightly. "I do not think Asbad will risk his captives in battle. If Legolas and Gimli are hale, they will be giving their captors a difficult time. Khurintu will be forced to expend effort to watch them, and they will not want to distract that effort by taking their prisoners into a battle. Rather, they will wait until all is said and done. And if Legolas and Gimli are not hale, which is likely, then Khurintu will not burden themselves with watching over two injured prisoners. Either way, they will probably not be in the rearguard but in a small company even further back."

"And if they are not?"

Aragorn’s expression was dark. "We cannot plan for everything. We have not the time. I wish with all the strength of my forebears that there was some way to assure their safety, but at this point, we cannot even assure our own." He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixing themselves upon Eomer's. "However, I would assure myself of one thing. In the presence of the other leaders, you told me I had Rohan's support, and I thank you for that. But I now wish to know if I have _your_ support."

A reluctant smile moved across Eomer's face. "This will not be the first time I have followed you into danger, Aragorn. In a way, this is not unlike what we did at the Morannon. We called Sauron’s attention to ourselves while others struck from behind." His shoulders moved in a silent sigh and he nodded. "You have my support, for all the good it will do you."

Aragorn returned the smile. "Then come, and let us make ready. And may we prove as resourceful as hobbits."

"We shall have to," Eomer said, and a spark of hope returned to him. "It will be a sorry reflection on the race of men if we do not."

 

 

 

 

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Ahta’ana ardit’ak idduun—Lend us your outer robes. (Haradric)

__

Shiraj—Sesame oil (Arabic word transplanted directly into Haradric. For further explanation, see the author’s notes.)

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Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for ú-glîr

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Iluh—Haradric pantheon of gods (equivalent to the Valar)/P>

 

 

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Author’s Notes: For the insanely curious, here’s an explanation for the word shiraj _as well as factoids on desert water-skin preparation techniques. In ancient Egypt, leather was either chamoised (made using oils) or tanned. Tanned leather was made using tannin taken from acacia pods, which resulted in a black, durable product. To turn this into a water-skin, a variety of oils and fats were worked into the leather to make it waterproof, and it is suspected that one of the oils used may have been sesame oil, or_ shiraj _. The fats and oils would block against liquid leakage, but water would still be able to evaporate out of the skin in the heat. Because of the energy used during evaporation, the water that did not evaporate (about two-thirds of it on long journeys) would stay relatively cool. Which is not only a necessity in desert travel but also a neat trick. Thought you might be interested._

Also, the title of this chapter was taken from something out of The Fellowship of the Ring _. Bonus points to any who can figure out where the phrase "from the ashes" comes from._


	38. Dregs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of trade deep within the deserts of Harad takes a sharp turn for the worst when politics, history, and power struggles become involved. Featuring Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and the Haradrim in all their scheming glory.

By the time the sun dipped close to the western horizon, Legolas had learned an important lesson: one did not search Harad's lava fields during the day.

He had expected his task to be difficult, but having been fairly active in Haradhur during the late afternoon, he did not think that leaving the cave an hour before sunset would be too great an ordeal. It was a mark of the growing strain on both his mind and his body that he failed to consider the differences between Haradhur's shaded alleys and the black volcanic rock that now burned beneath his feet. But by the time Legolas had realized his folly, he had pressed too far and endured too much to abandon the search. Beyond that, there was no alternative. Time was a luxury that neither he nor Gimli could afford, and so Legolas pressed on despite the heat, doggedly stumbling from one shadow to the next shadow in a vain attempt to elude the sun.

But despite appearances, fate seemed to be turning a more favorable eye upon the elf, and as the shadows grew long, Legolas found the object of his search. He nearly missed it, but a whisper of cool air caught his attention before he passed it by completely. Thanks to the morning's adventure, he recognized this faint breeze for what it was, and quickly following it, he discovered a small split in the face of a cliff, barely wide enough to crawl through. Easing himself down, Legolas peered into the darkness, careful to watch for other creatures that might have taken refuge from the sun. Not long ago, he had discovered that serpents could be found in some of these caves.

Thankfully this cave proved to be free of snakes, though Legolas decided that to call it a _cave_ was to be generous. It widened slightly after the entryway and the roof arched high enough that a man would be able to sit upright, but it extended no more than six feet into the side of the cliff. Still, it could hide someone from unfriendly eyes and there was no evidence that it had seen recent use. Those were all good signs. Moreover, it contained no water and was thus unlikely to be known to Khurintu. It was this final qualification that persuaded the elf.

Pulling back, he wiped away the perspiration that streamed down his face like a river and rose to his feet. Sweat had pooled in the arrow wound on his shoulder and stung sharply, but he had long ago pushed this pain to one side. Dizziness was the greater concern, for it now accompanied any sudden movement and had assailed him the moment he stood. Legolas suspected it to be an ailment brought on by the heat, but he was not sure. In any case, there was little he could do about it save to fight it off, so he closed his eyes and leaned against the rocky cliff until he felt that he could stand on his own without falling.

Momentarily free of vertigo, Legolas opened his eyes and turned his attention toward the sinking sun, calculating how much daylight remained to him. The answer made him curse, and his jaw tightened as he fought back a torrent of frustration. Evening was nearly upon him. He had hoped that he would be able to find a small hiding place for Gimli and then return to spend a bit of time with the dwarf ere he had to leave, but the search had taken too long. At this rate, he would be fortunate if left for Haradhur before sunset.

With a sigh that spoke of more than just physical exhaustion, Legolas brought to bear the patience that had enabled him to survive Mirkwood's darkest nights. He ruthlessly disciplined his thoughts until the frustration ebbed away, and once he regained control, he started back to the cavern where Gimli lay. His mind became a curious blank, conscious of nothing but the slow descent of the sun. He did not feel the scorching ground, and he did not think of the endless sand that he would soon be forced to cross. He would do what was needed when it was required of him, but until that time, his mind would be silent and still.

Then he reached the cave, and his enforced calm shattered.

Gimli could be heard long before he could be seen. Legolas was forced to pause in the cave's opening so that his eyes could adjust, but it was not an easy wait. The dwarf's breathing was slow and shallow, punctuated by an occasional moan, and with each sound of discomfort, Legolas felt his own chest constrict. By the time his eyes adjusted enough to see the shimmer of light that was the pool in the back, Legolas had trouble breathing himself.

The moment he could see clearly enough to navigate the cave's rocky floor, he hastened to Gimli's side, kneeling down and pressing the back of his hand to the dwarf's brow. The fever had dropped substantially, but Gimli's skin was still hot to the touch. Frowning, Legolas moved his hand to Gimli's injured thigh. The swelling seemed less, but when Legolas touched the other thigh for comparison, he winced at how much swelling yet remained. Lancing Gimli's wound had only bought them time. The dwarf was weakening. He needed the care of a true healer.

Sitting back, Legolas made use of a rather inventive Rohirric curse and mulled over his decision to leave. He hated the idea and he cursed the fates that had forced them into this situation, but for all his misgivings, it was painfully clear what had to be done. Gimli would die without help, and Aragorn and Eomer needed to be appraised of Khurintu's plans. In fact, Aragorn and Eomer were probably in need of help themselves. Khurintu seemed to be one step ahead of all of them, and Legolas dared not guess at what had happened in Haradhur since he and Gimli had been abducted.

But to leave Gimli behind…

And yet what choice did they have? Legolas lacked the strength to carry Gimli across the desert; his arms shook at the very thought. And they could not stay here in the hopes of being found, for if any were to find them, it would be Asbad and Dashnir. But Legolas was not confident of his ability to reach Haradhur. He was weary as he had seldom been before, and he was not entirely certain of Haradhur's location. He knew it lay somewhere to the west, but he was not sure of how far to the north or the south he would need to travel. If he set out in the wrong direction, he could be caught in the open desert when the sun rose, and he would die without accomplishing any of the things that demanded he go in the first place.

Additionally, he would be leaving Gimli unprotected. The dwarf was too weak to defend himself, and Asbad would surely kill Gimli as punishment for escaping. And even if Khurintu did not find Gimli, the dwarf was still dangerously ill. His fever had dropped, but it seemed a temporary reprieve at best. What if he needed water to cool his brow? What if he wished for company to calm his mind? What if he found himself alone when the end—

Legolas shuddered, unable to complete that thought. In the back of his mind, he knew that Gimli was mortal and that a day would come when they would both have to say final words, but he had always assumed that such a time was far removed and that they would find away around it. They would find a way for the dwarf to cheat death. But there would be no cheating here, and faced with the horrifying reality that Gimli might not live to see another day, Legolas realized just how unprepared he was for this moment. But then, could he have ever prepared for something like this?

"Legolas?"

Legolas jumped, taken completely by surprise. Berating himself for missing the dwarf's return to consciousness, he moved forward and seized a fevered hand. "Here, my friend," he said quietly. "I am with you."

"Why?"

The elf frowned. "Why?" he echoed, wondering if Gimli had become delirious during the afternoon. The fever had not risen, but perhaps the loss of fluids—

"Why are you here?" Gimli clarified, his voice weak. "You…you should go."

Legolas closed his eyes. "Soon," he murmured. "I will leave soon. But there are things I must see to ere I depart." He opened his eyes and turned his full attention on the dwarf, pinning him beneath a hard elven stare. "Will you promise me that you will endure for as long as I am away? On your honor as a son of Durin?"

"On my honor as a son of Durin, I can…promise to try," Gimli whispered. "On your honor as a prince of Greenwood, will you promise to succeed?"

"I swear by my father's sword that I will bring you help no matter the cost," Legolas vowed.

"No," Gimli hissed. "Not what I meant. Will you get yourself away? Will you find safety for yourself?"

"Gimli, the moment I find any aid whatsoever, I will return no matter the danger. You cannot persuade me otherwise."

"No!" Gimli growled, moving slightly as though he wished to sit up. "No good if we both die. Find safety. Get away from Khurintu. Arm yourself. Warn Eomer and Aragorn. Then you can return if…if there is still a need to."

"I fear the fever has overcome you," Legolas said, adjusting the moist rag that lay upon Gimli's brow. "Hush now. Time is passing, and you must conserve your strength."

"Legolas—"

"I told you to hush," Legolas chided, leaving the dwarf's side to retrieve the tunic piece he'd used earlier to give Gimli water. After submerging the cloth in the pool, he returned and slipped his arm beneath the dwarf's head and shoulders, raising him slowly. "Drink as much as you can," he said. "It may be the last you have for a time."

Gimli obediently began draining the saturated cloth, but he soon released it and turned away. "Sorry," he panted, releasing the material. "That is all I can take."

"You are certain? After I am gone—"

"I know," the dwarf sighed. "But I cannot drink more."

Legolas nodded, disappointed but not surprised. "Your stomach troubles you?"

"A bit," Gimli said, his voice reluctant. "I have no wish to test its limits."

The elf grimaced. "I went forth earlier and found a small cave further back in the rocks. In truth, it is little more than a split in the stone, but if you are able, I wish to move you there. It is likely that the Khurintu tribe knows these rocks and will search first those caves that have water. It will not be safe anywhere, but you have a better chance of eluding them in this smaller cave. Think you that your stomach can withstand one short journey?"

There was a long pause, and then Gimli nodded, a motion so slight that Legolas only felt it because the dwarf's head was leaning against his chest. "Let us go," Gimli whispered.

No more words were spoken. Gathering the strength that remained to him, Legolas slipped his free arm beneath Gimli's legs and lifted. His injured shoulder screamed and his back protested loudly, but Legolas paid them no heed. With every muscle straining, he staggered to his feet, clutching Gimli tightly to his chest and flinching at the dwarf's gasp of pain. The world dimmed and spun wildly around him, but Legolas gritted his teeth and clung to consciousness, somehow knowing that if he fell now, he would not have the strength to rise again. Slow seconds crept by as he leaned against a wall of the cave, praying that the dizziness would pass, and eventually the pounding in his ears faded. Darkness lifted from his vision, and his balance returned. Breathing a sigh of relief, Legolas waited a moment longer to be sure of himself, and then he moved out of the cave, using Gimli's weight to hasten his faltering feet.

It was perhaps the most difficult walk Legolas had ever made. Even the morning's rush toward the lava fields did not compare. His search beneath the afternoon sun had cost him dearly, and what energy he had gained back during the day was spent. His arms shuddered constantly, and it was by Sindar stubbornness alone that he did not collapse. _One more step_ , he told himself. _One more step. And now another. And another._ It became a litany, repeated over and over as he ducked his head against the glare of the sun and fought to maintain his grip on the dwarf. A small part of his mind he left free to watch the surrounding world, but all else dwindled until the burden in his arms became all that Legolas was. He did not know how long he walked or even if he walked in the correct direction. He could not afford to care about such things, for all his concentration was devoted to holding Gimli.

And then, after what seemed like the passage of Ages, that small part not focused upon Gimli sounded a warning.

Dazed and slightly confused, Legolas lifted his head and found himself staring at the opening to the cave he had discovered earlier. With a choking sob, the elf stumbled over the last few steps and fell to his knees, heedless of the sharp rocks beneath him. Waves of dizziness assailed him, and he hissed sharply, willing the vertigo to pass. His arms shook so grievously that he was certain he would drop Gimli at any moment. It would not work. He could not wait for his balance to correct itself. Hoping that he was at least partially upright, Legolas tucked his chin against his chest, and crawled into the narrow crack with as much speed as he could muster.

Gimli cried out once when his legs were pressed hard against the elf's side, but he silenced himself quickly. Even so, Legolas could feel him stiffening with every movement, and he realized with frightening certainty that neither one of them could endure much longer. His arms practically convulsing, Legolas summoned a final burst of strength and surged forward, practically falling into the deeper cavity where the rock widened. Heaving for air, Legolas lowered Gimli's legs to the ground, bowing over his friend as he struggled to control his shaking muscles.

"Should not have done that," Gimli hissed, tensing as the elf slipped his left arm out from under his knees.

Still trying to catch his breath, Legolas gathered himself enough to swallow and shake his head. "I could not leave you where Khurintu would find you."

"But the cost to yourself—"

"I will recover."

The dwarf did not seem to agree, but he did not debate the point. "I am sorry," he murmured. "I would have helped. I wished to help. But…I am so tired."

"Then rest," Legolas said, his voice barely audible. He continued to hold his friend, reluctant to let go but painfully aware of the fading light beyond the cave's entrance. "I am also sorry," he said at length. "This is not the way I would leave you, but it seems that I have little choice in the matter. If only…" Legolas trailed off, unsure of what to say or what could have been done differently.

"You did all that you could, Legolas."

Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line. "Perhaps, but I would that I could have done more." The elf shifted, reaching for a pocket sewn into the inner lining of his tunic. "Here," he said as his hand closed on the two objects held safely within. "Your flint and steel. I recovered them ere I left to seek this hiding place. A dwarf should never be without such tools."

"So my father says," Gimli whispered, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. He took them from the elf with trembling hands and slid them into the lining of his own tunic. That act seemed to exhaust the last of his strength, and with a sigh, Gimli closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back onto Legolas's shoulder, a gesture of trust and weakness that both touched the elf and further unnerved him. "It will be all right," the dwarf said breathlessly.

"I know. Rest now, and I will return as soon as I am able."

"No. _You_ , Legolas. _You_ will be all right. No matter what happens here."

"Gimli—"

"It was worth it," Gimli interrupted, opening his eyes and becoming strangely insistent. "I have been honored to be your friend."

"I do not think that—"

"If I die, do not grieve too much. All mortals die."

"Gimli!" Suddenly angry, Legolas had to fight the temptation to shake the dwarf. "Gimli, you promised to endure until my return, and I hold you to that oath."

"No, I promised that I would _try_ ," the dwarf corrected. "There is a difference."

"To me it is the same," Legolas snapped, knowing it was unfair to lay such a burden on his friend but unable to stop himself. "If you cease to live it will be because you cease to try. I expect to find you well and aware upon my return."

"As you say, Legolas," Gimli sighed with an air of resignation. "But whatever may happen, you will be all right in time. Remember that."

"Then remember your promise," Legolas said, easing the dwarf's back to the ground. Steeling himself, Legolas took a deep breath and then eased back out of the cave. "Safe rest, _elvellon_ ," he murmured, pausing for one last glance into the darkness that now protected the dwarf.

And ever so faintly, like a whisper borne on a dying wind, he heard Gimli call after him. "Mahal guide you, Legolas. Farewell."

* * * *

The sun had just disappeared beneath the horizon when Dashnir and his party discovered the dead mare.

There had been very little wind during the day, which meant that the trail left by the fleeing horse had been easy to follow. But as he reined his own horse to a halt a good twenty yards away, Dashnir decided that they would have found the carcass even had the tracks been completely swept away. The stench rising from its cooked corpse was soiling the air for nearly half a mile in every direction, and it was powerful enough that Khurintu's horses refused to approach the body. So Dashnir and the others dismounted and proceeded on foot, drawing their scarves tightly around their faces in an attempt to keep out the worst of the smell.

"It appears that her neck is broken, honored one," came a muffled report from one man. "She also has several arrow wounds. I think it likely that they forced a fall." The man bent down to touch the mare's head but pulled back quickly when a flurry of insects skittered out from beneath the animal.

"Here is an arrow, honored one," another man called, kneeling several feet away. "It is bloodied. Perhaps it was pulled from the horse."

"Nay," the first man answered. "The arrows that struck the horse are yet within the wounds."

"Then perhaps this arrow comes from one of the riders," Dashnir said quietly. "We have hurt them." The thought gave him a bit of satisfaction.

"Honored one!" cried a third man. "There is a trail here! Leading south away from the horse."

"How many prints?"

"I believe only one set, but it is difficult to say with certainty. The tracks are faint."

"So one of our captives at least continued. But what of the other?" Dashnir narrowed his eyes, flicking his hand absently at the flies that hovered above the mare. "Did they have access to water skins? Rations?"

"If they did, they took those supplies with them, honored one. The water skins here have burst open."

"Then even if some of the skins survived, there would not have been much," Dashnir mused quietly. He looked around at the men, all of whom had spent the previous night as guards for captives. "What do you remember of the dwarf's condition? Was he able to walk at the time of his escape?"

"Nay, it all seemed to be the elf's work, honored one. The dwarf did very little. I doubt he could support his own weight."

"And what of the elf?" Dashnir continued. "Was he strong enough to continue carrying the dwarf?"

"He carried him for much of the night without complaint, honored one, but toward the end, he seemed weary. I do not believe he would be able to carry the dwarf much further once the sun rose."

Dashnir folded his arms across his chest and considered the single trail, the bloodied arrow in the sand, and the dead horse. Together, with one carrying the other, there was little chance of survival for either elf or dwarf. A tribesman would have abandoned his stricken companion in order to reach safety, but Dashnir was well aware that he did not track tribesmen. He tracked two creatures that seemed to go beyond the understanding of men. Two creatures that, with one impossible act, had managed to endanger years of careful planning. Two creatures that were responsible for the murder of Dashnir's kinsmen.

The anger that had filled him during the day surged through him once again, but Dashnir shoved it aside. Much as he might enjoy it, he could not allow thoughts of vengeance to consume him. He needed to keep his mind clear or he would risk losing the captives even as Asbad had lost them. Shaking his head, he firmly turned his mind back to the puzzle of the single trail. The elf and dwarf might be greatly enigmatic in many ways, but Dashnir felt he did grasp one thing about them: their allegiance. The elf and dwarf were encumbered with an unhealthy loyalty for one another, and given what he'd seen on the road to Haradhur, there would be snow in the desert before one forsook the other. Wherever they were, they were together. And as only one trail led away from the horse, the elf had been forced to carry the dwarf. This probably meant that the dwarf had been the one to take the arrow. If the men were right and the elf had been weakening, then further injuries would have rendered him unable to carry his friend.

Raising his eyes, Dashnir followed the line of the horizon until he made out a black silhouette rising against the evening sky. Knowing his time was short, the elf would have made for nearest potential shelter, and that meant the Wahd lava fields. They were a formidable distance away—virtually unreachable for one burdened with a crippled companion—but they held the only sure promise of shade and water in this area.

"Return to the horses," Dashnir commanded. "We ride for the Wahd. Given what we know of their condition, it is my hope that we will find the bodies of both the elf and the dwarf ere we reach the rocks. And if the _Iluh_ are generous, we will find them in time to join the honored Asbad in his attack on Haradhur. Come!"

The mood of the men brightened significantly at the thought that they might yet take part in the battle, and they quickly mounted. On Dashnir's signal, the group struck out at a swift gallop, following the trail for as long as it could be seen. When the night grew darker and the trail faded from view, they simply hastened toward the rocks, spreading apart so that they would have a better chance of finding the bodies they sought.

But fifteen minutes later, they were still riding, and Dashnir felt his anger flare once more.

The rocks were very close now, and as yet, they had neither seen nor smelled the captives. While escorting Gondor and Rohan into Harad, Dashnir had observed that both the elf and the dwarf possessed remarkable endurance, but if they had both managed to reach the Wahd, then their abilities far surpassed anything Dashnir had ever seen. It was another impossible act, and a shiver of uncertainty crept into Dashnir's heart. The Wahd was a twisting labyrinth of volcanic rocks and cliffs, housing both many caves and large aquifer that ran the length of the lava fields. Their hunt was about to become very difficult. It could take hours, possibly even days, of tedious searching to find the elf and dwarf, and that assumed that they were still within the lava fields. If their health had allowed for it, the pair might have left the Wahd at sunset in an attempt to return to Haradhur. That was a possibility Dashnir could no longer discount.

_Once again, I find we know too little of these creatures_ , he thought, tightening his hold on his temper. _Would that we had denied them entry to the desert!_

The horses began to pass the first of the Wahd's rock outcroppings, and with something of an ill grace, Dashnir resigned himself to the fact that he would not be joining Asbad in the battle against Gondor and Rohan. His men seemed to feel likewise, and by unspoken consent, the speed of the entire group slowed. They drew together as the shadow of the Wahd rose up to block the stars, and at the point where the sand ceased and the jagged cliffs began, Dashnir reined to a halt. Following his lead, the men also stopped, waiting silently for instruction.

"Withdraw," Dashnir ordered after a moment's consideration. "We shall retreat back into the desert and ride south along the Wahd's western edge. Keep a careful watch for any trails leading out of the lava fields. We must be certain that our quarry is here before we go further."

There was a low murmur of acknowledgement as Dashnir wheeled his horse about, and then the night was once again filled by the sound of pounding hooves. The group quickly moved back onto the sand and then turned south, reducing their pace to a brisk trot. The stars and moon cast a pale glow over the sand, and Dashnir hoped it would be enough to illuminate any tracks left by those leaving the rocks.

Traveling single file so that all had a clear view of the desert to the west and the lava fields to the east, the men bent low over their horses' necks. Those in the rear kept their eyes trained upon the ground, trusting those in the front to guide their journey. Periodically, Dashnir would choose a man to break away and remain behind as a sentry of sorts. If the elf and dwarf were able to travel, then it was likely that they had already left, but Dashnir was reluctant to put his full trust behind that assumption. If any were still within the Wahd, he intended to make certain that they could not flee.

The night wore on, and the last remnants of sunset faded into black. The riders slowed even more to compensate for the darkness, and the search continued. Long minutes dragged by while the black rocks of the Wahd crawled past, but though the men made a thorough examination of the sand, not once did the see anything resembling a mark or a track.

At length, Dashnir held up his hand and signaled for a halt. Insofar as he could determine, the sand before them was clear, and further riding would be fruitless. Upon reaching the Wahd, the elf and dwarf would have sought immediate shelter, but though they might have gone south later in the day to avoid pursuit, they would not have traveled far. They would have chosen to conserve their strength for the night. If there was a trail to find, then Dashnir felt that they would have found it by now.

"It seems that we must search the rocks themselves," Dashnir announced as the men gathered around him. "We shall do so by dividing into two groups. One shall return north and resume the search where we believe the elf and dwarf entered the Wahd. The rest of us shall begin our search here."

"What of those who separated to keep watch, honored one?"

"They shall remain at their posts. I will take no chance that the elf and dwarf might flee whilst we are searching for them," Dashnir answered. "When you enter the rocks themselves, leave the horses in the desert as they will be more hindrance than help. Be swift and be silent. Our objective is to take our prey unawares. Concentrate the hunt on caves, particularly those known to hold water, but do not overlook other possibilities. If you find the elf and dwarf together, the elf is to be killed and the dwarf taken alive. If you find only one, keep him alive so that he might tell us the location of the other." Dashnir paused, looking about to see if there were any who did not understand, but all remained silent. With a tight smile that did not reach his eyes, he nodded and then divided the men in half, appointing one of the lower captains to lead the second group. Within moments, all those chosen to ride north turned and hastened away, leaving naught but a cloud of sand in their wake.

Shielding his face against the flying sand, Dashnir turned toward the desert and fought to check his anger. If he was fortunate, he would be able to bring Asbad a dwarven head the following night, but such a prospect brought him no joy. Dashnir should be at his leader's side now. This bid for power was as much his making as Asbad's, and he felt it was his right to see the fruits of their gamble come to fullness. But instead, he was searching the labyrinth of the Wahd for two abominations who, by all accounts, should have been killed the previous night.

His fury hot and fierce, Dashnir took a deep breath and cleared his mind. The winds had blown whither they would, and the dust was settling, in more ways than one. Nothing could be done about that now. After another deep breath, Dashnir felt his feelings settle into grudging acceptance and decided that it was the best he could hope for. Loosing a quiet sigh, Dashnir turned his horse toward the rocks and prepared to lead the remaining men into the lava fields.

At which point something flickered on the edge of his vision.

Dashnir froze, hardly daring to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye, far away in the open desert, something had…moved. He could not tell what had moved, and the movement itself had been faint enough that it might easily have been a trick of the starlight. But Dashnir's instincts said otherwise, and he rarely ignored his instincts.

"Honored one?"

Ignoring the questioning glances among his men, Dashnir turned back to the desert and kicked his horse forward. He set his eyes upon the spot that had caught his attention, and he willed the darkness to part, waiting for the movement to come again.

But now that he looked directly at it, there seemed to be nothing there.

Doubt crept into his mind. Had he truly seen something? There was no trail leading from the Wahd, after all. Perhaps the night was being deceitful. Or perhaps his wish to join his leader was causing him to see things that did not exist. Dashnir frowned and toyed with his horse's reins, wondering if his senses could be trusted. Perhaps Asbad's warnings about the lingering shadow of _ma'awnwa_ should be given even greater credence.

And then he saw it again.

There could be no mistaking it this time, and judging from the scattered murmurs behind him, others saw it as well. Starlight flashed against something in the desert. Something that seemed to be hurrying away from the Wahd. His grudging acceptance transforming sharp anticipation, Dashnir urged his horse into a run, and the rest of the company fell in behind him. A renewed sense of purpose lent speed to their mounts, and the rocks quickly faded into darkness as the group flew across the sand.

The flicker of movement now became clear for all to see, and as they continued, it resolved into the shape of a running figure. It was soon apparent that this figure had seen them as well, for he began running earnest. But he was no match for the horses, and they continued to gain.

"Archers!" Dashnir ordered.

Several of the men separated from the main group and drew ahead, releasing their horses' reins and notching arrows. They were too far yet to shoot, but they were closing rapidly. A flash of golden hair gave Dashnir all the confirmation he needed, and with a cry, he drew his sword.

"Release!"

Arrows screamed through the night, shrill and deadly. They pelted the sand just behind their prey, and the runner jerked to one side as though startled. But still he fled, and Dashnir ordered another volley, his legs tightening around his horse's sides as the bolts raced toward the target, this time striking the area around him.

And the runner fell.

A wall of sand flew up as the figure slammed into the ground, rolling hard. He was lost from view for a moment in a cloud of dust, and then he rose, stumbling wildly and clearly favoring one side. The archers prepared to fire again, but Dashnir waved them back. He sent spearmen to either side of the main group, and he checked his horse's speed as they spread apart. They thundered over the remaining distance, and the men on the outside swept out and around, leading the others into a wide circle around their quarry. Caught in the center, the runner—who could now be identified as their missing elf—staggered to a halt and whipped about as the net tightened. One hand was clutched around an arrow that protruded from his left shoulder, and with a muffled cry, he drew it forth. The resulting pain seemed to steal whatever strength had kept him upright, and he collapsed to his knees as the men stopped altogether.

A sharp ring of steel accompanied the appearance of drawn swords, and Dashnir moved his horse inside the circle and dismounted, studying the captive. The elf made no attempt to rise, though he did treat each man to a baleful glare that seemed to unnerve the horses. Cautiously, Dashnir began to advance, careful to keep his blade raised and his weight upon the balls of his feet. The elf's sharp glance immediately settled upon him, hateful and piercing, but then he looked down and shuddered, putting one hand on the ground as though to brace himself.

__

He is either incapable of standing or conserving his strength for a final battle, Dashnir decided, stopping when he was but a few feet from the elf. He considered the idea of killing the creature outright, but though that would rid them of one problem, there was still the dwarf to consider. Dashnir was surprised that the two were not together, and he did not wish to destroy the elf until he uncovered why. Moving one step closer, Dashnir steeled his mind against the possibility of _ma'awnwa_ and began to speak.

"You have led us on quite a chase, Lord Legolas," he said quietly, keeping the tip of his sword in line with his enemy's chest.

The elf looked up with a smoldering glare, but his eyes were forced away yet again by a series of convulsive coughs. Wrapping one arm tightly around his chest, he began to shake as the harsh coughs continued. Seemingly unable to control himself, he sank forward until he collapsed completely, drawing his knees up to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. This seemed to help as the coughs died away, but the shaking did not. And as his trembling increased, the elf began to moan.

"It may ease your mind to know that you will soon be at peace," Dashnir said, drawing a bit closer but tightening his grip on his sword. "Yet first it is my duty to ask after your companion. Where is Lord Gimli? Speak and we will not prolong your misery."

The elf hissed and moved as though he wished to rise, but he only managed to get one arm beneath him before he collapsed on top of it. Studying the prone figure, Dashnir marveled that he had made it even this far. He was shivering violently, his breathing was shallow and rapid, and a long tear along the back of his now sleeveless tunic revealed an arrow wound smeared with blood.

"Come, my friend, you have done enough," Dashnir coaxed, lowering his voice. "Given the trials you faced, there is no shame in defeat. Indeed, your efforts were quite impressive. But they are at an end now, and neither you nor the dwarf need suffer any longer. Choose the path of mercy. Tell us of Lord Gimli."

The elf's breath hitched, his hands clenched, and he suddenly loosed a keening cry that seemed to hang over the desert, eerie and haunting. Dashnir leaped back, startled by the outburst, and some of the horses reared, fighting their riders before they were forced into submission.

"Dead," the elf ground out when the cry faded. He lifted his head and captured Dashnir's eyes with a look that sent shivers down his back. "Gimli is dead."

There was something unnatural about the elf's gaze. Something that had no place in the desert. At first there was only darkness, but then came a…change. A shift. Something in the elf's eyes flashed, and for a brief moment, Dashnir was suddenly beset by image of endless waters, stretching forth in a swirl of wind and spray. Cresting waves rose and fell against one another, dark beneath a clouded sky, and wheeling low over the roaring surf, a white bird suddenly cried out, its call latching on to something deep within Dashnir's heart that had slumbered for years beyond count—

And then the elf closed his eyes.

The waters vanished with jarring abruptness, and Dashnir nearly fell over as the arid desert snapped back into view. But a taste of salt lingered in his mouth, and he had to glance at the sky just to confirm that it was indeed free of clouds. Ruthlessly disciplining his thoughts, Dashnir struggled to push away the memory of the white bird's call. The men were restless and he could hear them murmuring, but he blocked them out. Whatever the elf was doing, he could not let it distract him from his purpose!

"Dead, you say?" he demanded, pushing away a strange feeling of loss that suddenly overwhelmed him. "I am surprised you did not stay with the body."

"Gimli is gone," the elf whispered, dropping his head and shuddering. "What good would my presence do him?"

The rumbles of waves still echoed in Dashnir's mind, and he shook his head sharply, fighting for concentration. The elf was lying. He was reasonably certain of that. The dwarf still lived, and it was imperative to learn his location and his condition. "My men say you carried Lord Gimli for many hours last night," Dashnir said, choosing his words carefully. "I find it difficult to believe that you would abandon him now, even in death."

Muttering something too low to make out, the elf curled in on himself, hands digging into the sand.

"And what of his body?" Dashnir pressed, moving closer as the elf continued to withdraw. "Are there rites or customs that must be performed? Surely you have not left him unattended!"

With a slight groan, the elf opened his eyes and lifted his head. Once again, Dashnir had a fleeting impression of wind and water, but it was weaker now, and as the elf's groan died away, the image vanished. His mind was his own again, and filled with a sudden confidence, Dashnir moved even closer, smiling grimly when the elf tensed.

"Tell us where he lies," Dashnir urged. "Tell us, and we will see to his remains. We may even reach him before the carrion eaters begin their work. They are swift and have been known to set upon even those who are not yet dead. I would not wish such a fate to befall Lord Gimli's body."

To the elf's credit, his face betrayed nothing, but in his eyes, Dashnir caught a hint of doubt coupled with fear.

"Your silence harms more than helps," Dashnir said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You have been an honorable foe. Let us repay that honor. Let us see to the dwarf." He reached out and placed a hand on the elf's shoulder just above where the arrow had struck, squeezing slightly. "Gimli deserves better than a forsaken cave, does he not? And you, my friend…you deserve better than torturous pain when we could grant you the mercy of a quick death." Dashnir's hand moved closer to the arrow wound, stopping just short of the growing red stain to emphasize the threat behind his words.

And then Dashnir noticed something.

There was dried blood around the wound.

Dried blood that was, at the very least, several hours old.

It was as though a veil of smoke suddenly lifted. In one brief moment, Dashnir realized how close he was to the elf. He realized that at some point in the conversation, he had lowered his sword. He realized that the wound he saw was not a new wound but one that had just reopened. And he realized that the elf beneath his hand was not tense with pain or grief but rather with anticipation.

In one brief moment, he realized that he had yet again underestimated his opponent.

In the next moment, the elf moved, and the arrow that had supposedly brought him down—an arrow that all seemed to have forgotten about—suddenly buried itself in Dashnir's side.

 

 

 

 

 

_Iluh_ —Harad equivalent of the Valar

_Ma'awnwa_ —Haradric for _ú-glîr_


End file.
